


A Second Look

by Pilesshipper13



Series: The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes [2]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Female Sherlock Holmes, Gen, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, s1ep7 one way to get off, s1ep9 you do it to yourself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2020-07-28 20:09:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20069863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pilesshipper13/pseuds/Pilesshipper13
Summary: A deeper look into the cases of Sherlock Holmes told from the perspective of a single character and in the soulmate words AU.





	1. S1ep7- One Way to Get Off (Gregson)

**Author's Note:**

> So in this fic, I will be basically continuing from  Again?  So if you want to see the first episode of the series, read that first. If y'all have a specific request for an episode, feel free to ask!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When murders that look just like one of Gregson's closed cases start to come up, he doubts himself.

"No Watson," Gregson asks as Sherlock walks in. He's used to seeing them together- the one time he didn't, Sherlock had been kidnapped. But he doubts that's what's happened here. 

"Took the morning off," Sherlock replies, looking at the murder scene. "Something about a cousin falling ill. Shall we?"

"Yeah," Gregson shakes himself. "Jay and Amy Myrose. Their cleaning lady found them like this when she got here this morning. Preliminary times of death indicate that the suspect broke in after midnight, dragged the Myroses out of bed, forced them to give up the combination to their wall safe, and then," he trails off. "I gotta tell ya," he says quietly, taking a step closer to Sherlock. "Coming in here this morning was like wakin' up in the middle of a nightmare I thought I stopped havin' a long time ago." He's grateful that Sherlock replies just as quietly. 

"Is that because of the uncanny similarities to the Wade Crewes murders in 1999?"

"You- you know about that?"

"I picked up the particulars of these deaths on my scanner app while I was taxiing over. Victims' arms bound with pile hitch knots, pillows strapped to their heads with belts. Have to admit, the similarities are striking."

"Yes, no, no, I know," Gregson stammers. He's so thrown, he doesn't care. "I just didn't think you'd know about Wade Crewes."

"Thirteen years ago he perpetrated three home invasions over three months. Each case a wealthy couple murdered in the middle of the night, contents of their wall safe emptied." She turns her head to look at him. "Eventually brought to justice by you." Gregson is flattered to hear the pride in her voice. "Something of a career-defining case. Of course I know about it."

"Question is, why copycat a home invader?"

Sherlock looks at him, confused. "You think this is the work of a copycat?"

"Well, it's either that or...some sort of weird coincidence."

"There is another possibility. But that depends entirely on what I find in the closet. Mind showing me the bedroom?" Gregson nods and heads for the stairs, leading Sherlock up them. 

"What do you mean, 'another possibility,'" he asks her.

"It's easier to show you than explain."

"Explain _what_," Gregson bites, stopping and whirling on her. Sherlock looks back at him, calm. He sighs. "Sorry. I should know your...process by now. If it's easier to show me, I won't push you." They start walking again.

"I noticed something odd in the old case files when I looked them up on my way over here," Sherlock says. "Two of the safes that Crewes looted were located in the bedroom closet. The other was in an office, but he rifled through the bedroom anyway. In each of the cases, the woman of the house had a collection of expensive shoes." They arrive in the bedroom and Gregson gestures for her to go in front of him. Sherlock nods at him and does, heading to the walk-in closet. Gregson stands in the doorway and watches her, slightly confused. What do shoes have to do with murder? Does she think that that's how this guy's choosing the victims? "And in every case, one of those shoes was missing after the murder."

Gregson frowns. "Why would someone steal one shoe?"

"A fair question. My guess is that the perpetrator wanted something to memorialize the event. Something like," she trails off, then picks up a shoe. "One high-heeled Jimmy Choo," she dangles it from her finger. He looks- there's no match to it. "Wade Crewes told you that he worked alone in 1999. I think he lied. I don't think we're looking for a copycat, but rather someone who helped him do his work." Gregson stares at the shoe, mind working. _Is she right? No, she can't be. There was never any evidence that anyone but Crewes did the '99 murders. If there was, he would have given them up in a heartbeat to shave time off. _He walks away, leaving Sherlock. 

Gregson briefs his people, giving out tasks. Holmes is uncharacteristically quiet, but he's glad for it. He's still mulling over what she said at the crime scene. She has to be wrong. She just has to be. It's just a copycat. When the briefing is done, Holmes approaches him. "A word, Captain," she requests. He nods, leading her to his office. "I suggest that you and I go to Sing Sing to talk to Wade Crewes. We now know there's a connection between the old murders and the new, and Crewes is the one man who can tell us what it is." 

"Waste of time," Gregson shrugs. "He'd tell you he was partnered with the Taliban if it shaved time off his sentence. And we _don't_ know there's a connection." She opens her mouth. "Oh. Right. The missing high heel," he says, sarcasm dripping from his words. "Don't people lose shoes all the time?" That had acid behind it. But he doesn't really care right now; it really does feel like he's in the middle of a nightmare.

"Not thousand-dollar ones," Holmes replies, and Gregson is relieved that she didn't take it personally. "I have to say, you seem strangely reluctant to pursue such a promising lead." The relief disappears, replaced by true annoyance. 

"It's not a lead yet," Gregson uses his Captain Voice. "It's not an anything yet," he forces himself to soften his tone towards his soulmate. "Maybe you'll turn out to be right," he admits. "But talking to Wade Crewes is not going to get you there, I promise you." He watches her, but she doesn't betray much. But he likes to think he knows her style by now. "Don't go to see him alone. If it does turn out to be something, I'll take you. Promise me."

"I promise, Captain."

"Good." Sherlock must hear the dismissal in his tone because she leaves. Gregson sinks onto his couch, rubbing his face. "Fuck." He leans down and brushes his fingers over his ankle, where Sherlock's words are. They always brought him comfort when they were apart. 

"Captain," Marcus says, and he looks up. Marcus looks at his hand, and Gregson follows his eye- his words are half-exposed. He tugs his cuff down and stands.

"Yeah, Bell?"

"We found threatening emails on the Myroses' computer."

"I'll get Holmes." Gregson walks to the door, but he stops before he leaves. "Marcus." His Detective turns to look at him, dropping his hand from around his left wrist. "You'll meet them."

"Actually, I won't," Marcus admits. Gregson frowns. "My words are grey."

"Shit. I'm sorry, Marcus."

Marcus shrugs. "I was born with them like that."

"Marcus-"

"Let's go get Holmes." 

They find her at the vending machines, glaring at them. 

"What, it steal your money or something," Gregson asks. "They're finicky."

"You came to me for a reason?" She barely waited for him to finish talking before she spoke. She's pissed. After all this is over, he'll ask her what's up.

"Alright, CCS dug through the Myroses' laptop," Marcus starts. "They both got a bunch of threatening emails from the same anonymous account. We traced the IP address to a guy named Julian Walsh. Guy's a contractor. The Myroses hired him to remodel their kitchen-" he hands Sherlock a file without pausing "-and then fired him six weeks later. They filed a complaint about his work and withheld payment."

"And Walsh responded with anonymous threats," Gregson continues. 

"We ran him through the NCIC. He did time for weapons possession and sexual assault. We're going to talk to him now." Marcus walks in the direction of the bullpen, probably to get his jacket.

"_That's_ a lead," Gregson can't keep the smugness out of his voice. Sherlock's jaw ticks, and he realizes that she's grinding her teeth. "Hey," he says softly. "Stop that." She takes a deep breath and relaxes. "Look. If this guy's a rapist, you don't have to come with us."

Sherlock just looks at him. "I hardly think that Julian Walsh will try anything with two policemen in his home. And even if he is stupid enough to try it," she shrugs. "I box."

"Really," Gregson asks. Sherlock nods, and Gregson's impressed. She must have pretty good reach, now that he thinks about it. "You can use the department gym if you like. Better opponents." Sherlock's shoulders relax. 

"Thank you, Captain."

"What's got you so stressed," he asks.

Marcus clears his throat softly, and they look over. "Do you want me to drive?"

"As long as the Captain has no objection."

"You can drive," Gregson nods. They walk out to the parking lot together. Sherlock slides into the back, sitting behind Marcus. Gregson gets into the passenger seat and Marcus drives them to Walsh's home. 

When they get there, Gregson does the police knock. Walsh comes to the door and sighs. "All potatoes are mashed to your stomach," he says, resigned.

"They better be, it's the best kind of potato," Gregson says. Walsh looks at Marcus. 

"Rabbits can't leap, only hop."

"Hopping seems to work for them just fine."

He looks at Sherlock. "Mr. Walsh, may we come in?" Walsh stills, frowning. 

"Uh, sure. What do the cops want with me now," he asks, standing aside. Gregson lets Marcus and Sherlock go in front of him. Walsh checks Sherlock out, but Gregson glares at him. Walsh must feel it, because he glances at him before he drops his eyes and goes to sit on his couch. Marcus and Gregson stand in front of him, Sherlock hanging back against the wall.

"Do you know the Myroses," Gregson starts. 

"Yeah, they hired me to work on their kitchen."

"But they didn't like your work, huh," Gregson asks.

"Guess not." Gregson nods at Marcus, who opens the file and starts reading one of the emails Walsh sent. 

"When you least expect it, I'll be there to give you what's yours. A pair of pliers and a handful of rusty nails are the only tools I'll need." Granted, not the same way they were killed, and it doesn't explain the missing shoe Sherlock found, but it is a murderous threat. "Sound familiar, Mr. Walsh?"

"Ok, yes, I sent those emails. But that doesn't mean I killed anybody," Walsh says. There's something about him Gregson doesn't like, outside of being a murder suspect. Though that probably has something to do with the sexual assault conviction. 

"Well, you talked about killing people and they wound up dead. I'm sure you can follow along," Marcus says.

"I don't know what you want me to say," Walsh says, sitting back. He's trying to appear calm, but he's nervous as fuck. 

"Well, we'd be more inclined to believe you if you told us your whereabouts last night between 6:00 and midnight."

"I watched TV, and then I went to bed by 11:00. I live alone, but that doesn't mean I did anything." Gregson notices Sherlock start shifting on her feet. She actually walks to the doorway of another room and looks in. Gregson walks backwards to her. 

"You with us here," Gregson asks her quietly. 

"Yep," she says quickly. "I just want to see if this house has a basement." Gregson's confused, but she doesn't make him wait long. "Walsh has looked at the floor three times since we've been here. He's hiding something." Gregson nods.

"I'll cut this off and get us a warrant."

"And allow him time to destroy evidence? I don't think so."

"Holmes-" he starts, annoyed. 

"Excuse me, do you have a lavatory I might use," she asks, stepping forward.

"Huh," Walsh asks.

"Bathroom," Gregson translates. 

"Yeah, upstairs," Walsh says, pointing to the ceiling.

"Thank you," Holmes nods, walking off. Gregson approaches the interrogation, tuning back in. 

"Look, Walsh, you see how this looks from our side," Gregson says.

"Yeah, I do, but I didn't kill anyone." Walsh opens his mouth to say more but is interrupted by sliding metal sounds coming from beneath their feet. "Shit!" Walsh takes off deeper into the house.

"Hey," Marcus shouts, giving chase. Gregson keeps right with him, wondering what the Hell Holmes is doing. Walsh throws open the basement door and the men see Holmes struggling with a cabinet. 

"What the Hell are you doing," Gregson asks, coming down the stairs. Holmes moves it out of the way, and as Gregson comes around, he sees a door that would have been hidden. Holmes walks deeper into the basement to a set of tools, selecting a large monkey wrench.

"He lied," she gestures with it. "When he said he lived alone." Gregson looks back and sees Walsh run his hands through his hair. Marcus has his hand clapped securely on the man's right shoulder. Holmes starts hacking at the padlock. 

"Keep him there," Gregson points at Marcus.

Sherlock gets through the door and a woman exclaims on the other side. Sherlock goes in, Gregson right behind her, gun drawn. There's a woman in just underclothes chained to a pipe. Sherlock drops the wrench and slowly gets on her knees, extending her hands to her. "Shh, shh," she soothes. "_Politsiya_," she says. Gregson knows 'we're police' in a lot of languages- this one's Russian. "_Politsiya_." Sherlock reaches back for him, and he understands what she wants. He flips his jacket out, showing the woman his badge. She laughs and nods. 

"Arrest him," Gregson orders Marcus.

"Face the wall, now," Marcus barks, and Walsh does. Marcus handcuffs him. Gregson moves to approach them when he hears Russian. 

"Captain," Sherlock says. Gregson looks back. Sherlock has the woman in her arms. "Katya wants you to stay." The woman says something. "You make her feel safe." Gregson nods, putting his back to the women and standing guard. 

"Call it in," he nods to Marcus. "Does she speak any English?"

Sherlock translates. "_Nyet._" Gregson knows that one. Sherlock asks her something else, and Katya gasps. "_Da, da, da._" Gregson looks over his shoulder and sees Sherlock take out a set of lockpicks. She starts working on Katya's locks, making quick work of them. Katya kicks them away. Sherlock says something in a soft soothing tone. Katya spits on the chains and burrows into Sherlock. Sherlock takes off her suit jacket and puts it over her. 

Sherlock pauses before she starts to sing a song in Russian. Gregson listens- it sounds like a lullaby. Katya sobs before she joins in. Gregson just watches them. Gregson marvels at her- Sherlock has changed a lot since the smart-ass kid she used to be. She's still a smart-ass, but time had softened her a little. She can relate more to people, in his opinion. Sherlock manages to keep Katya relatively calm until the medics get there.

Gregson and Sherlock lead Katya out, one on either side. Katya grabs his hand and says something.

"She says thank you."

"You're welcome," he nods. Sherlock translates and helps her onto the gurney. Gregson goes to a uni and gets an NYPD sweatshirt, coming back with it. Katya exchanges Sherlock's jacket for it. Gregson leaves them be, watching them from afar with Marcus- a uni took Walsh away.

"I can't believe it," Marcus says. "How did Holmes know?"

"She said that Walsh kept looking at the floor," Gregson says. "She thought he was hiding something about the murders."

"Turns out he was hiding a person," he scoffs. "Poor girl."

Sherlock approaches them. "Katya came to the U.S. to work as a prostitute," she starts, voice flat. "Her...handlers sold her to Julian Walsh a couple of weeks ago. She told me that he has been to...see her every night since then, and that most nights he slept in her room." She pauses. "Including last night."

They stare at her. "Walsh's sex slave is his alibi for the Myrose murders," Marcus asks, incredulous. 

"I'm afraid it looks that way. Respectfully," she turns to Gregson. "I suggest that we bring everyone on the task force into a comprehensive review of the original case files."

"Are you really talking about the shoe thing again? I'm not gonna divert an entire task force for a missing high heel."

"_Four_ missing high heels, counting the original crime scenes."

"Ok, I'm gonna let that disrespect slide because of Katya."

Sherlock takes a deep breath. "The original murder weapon was never recovered," she says, calmer.

"Yeah, Crewes said he dumped it in the East River."

"Let's go see if he was telling the truth, shall we?"

Sherlock gets in the backseat of Marcus' car. Marcus looks at Gregson. "Let's humor her," he shrugs. They get in the car and Sherlock directs them to the lab.

Sherlock gets out quickly, leaving Gregson hurrying after her. "Holmes." Sherlock doesn't answer, going down the stairs. "Holmes!"

"Myrose ballistics," she asks a technician. 

"Hasn't been processed yet," he replies.

"Still. Where?"

The man provides directions. Holmes follows them. 

"Holmes," Gregson puts as much order into his voice as he can. She still ignores him, putting on gloves and using tweezers to pick up the bullet. "What are we doing down here?"

"Ballistic comparison," Holmes says at last.

"You heard the guy, it's not ready yet," Marcus says. She holds up a paper that she had pulled out of her pocket.

"This is the original report from the original murders." She puts the bullet under the microscope.

"You're gonna do it by eye," Marcus asks. Gregson walks over to Holmes, Marcus following after a beat.

"The human eye is a precision instrument," she says, not looking up. She starts typing on the computer. "It can detect grooves and lands on a slug far more efficiently than any computer. Computer results are checked by the human eye anyway; I'm just cutting out a step." She pauses, looking between the screen and the microscope. She stands up straight and looks at Gregson. "In all of these killings, and in last night's murders, the slug had the same distinctive dent on the case head. It was caused by some sort of defect in the gun's barrel. The grooves and lands also show a steep twist to the left," she demonstrates with her hand. Gregson just looks at her. "See for yourself," she gestures.

Gregson looks in the microscope, then the screen. His heart drops. His eyes might not be as good anymore, but even he's convinced. _Fuck. Holmes is right. This isn't a copycat._

"Now, you can wait for the computers to confirm it if you like," Holmes says quietly. Gregson straightens to find that Marcus has walked off and is waiting at the door. Gregson looks at her. "Wade Crewes lied to you about dumping the murder weapon. Wherever it's been for the past thirteen years, it was used last night to kill the Myroses. This is no longer a theory, Captain. It's a fact that these cases are indelibly linked."

"I'll call the task force together." Sherlock nods. Gregson walks towards Marcus, expecting Holmes to follow him. She does not. He looks back in confusion. "Are you coming?"

"I'll make my own way back; I have an errand to run."

"Now?"

"Unavoidable, I'm afraid."

Gregson nods and leaves with Marcus. As his Detective drives, he stares out his window.

"It's not your fault that Wade Crewes didn't tell you that he was working with someone," Marcus says. "The Myroses' deaths are not on you." Gregson doesn't answer. The rest of the drive is silent.

Gregson walks into the precinct and finds a familiar figure at his secretary's desk.

"What are you doing here," he asks Terry. She turns.

"I figured maybe you could tell me that. I got a message to come here to review the Wade Crewes murders." She looks just as confused as he feels. 

"I didn't call you," he frowns.

"I did," Holmes says, approaching them. Marcus wisely leaves. "Ms. D'Amico was your partner when you investigated the original murders in '99. Surely she might help shed light on the situation." She turns to Terry. "Nice to meet you."

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes," she extends her hand. 

"You're not a cop." Terry doesn't shake it.

"Consultant."

Terry looks at Gregson disapprovingly. Gregson's used to that- most cops don't believe in consultants. They're seen as crutches. "You need a consultant?"

"She's also my soulmate." Terry's eyes go wide.

"I'll just sit in the conference room," Holmes says, and she leaves. 

"Tommy, you met your soulmate?"

"It was in '01, after the Towers. I was sent to Scotland Yard to observe their counterterrorism task force, we crossed paths."

"Captain, we're ready," Marcus rescues him from more questions. They go in the conference room. 

Gregson lets Marcus lead. When he finishes, Gregson gives out the orders. "I'm going to go talk with Crewes, see if I can't shake his tree. Holmes, with me." She nods. "Garrity, Ramberg, you grab a couple'a guys and start digging into some old case files. Bell, I want you to look into the suspects from '99. We're done here." The task force breaks, and Terry leaves without a word. Holmes sticks around.

"Not to pry," she starts.

"I have a feeling you're going to anyway," he growls lightly. 

"Did everything end well between you and Detective D'Amico? You didn't greet each other, you didn't say goodbye," she says. He glares at her. 

"Leave my old partnership alone."

"You once told me that I could always come talk to you." He pauses before he nods. "I would like to offer the same to you. Soulmates go both ways."

"I'll keep that in mind." Gregson leaves and Holmes follows him. He silently drives to Sing Sing. Holmes doesn't try to talk.

They go through the checkpoint and Gregson flashes his badge. He stops in the lobby, whirling on Holmes. "You observe. Don't ask questions, don't say a word," he orders.

"But-"

"Observe."

Holmes sighs but nods. He leads her to the visiting area. She goes to sit beside him, but he backs her up to sit at a table further back. "Stay here."

"Captain-" He cuts her off with a glare. She sits and Gregson goes to his table, standing. Wade Crewes is escorted in. He's clean-shaven now, with short hair and glasses. But Gregson knows that underneath that grooming, he's still the same scumbag he used to be.

"I wasn't sure if you and your partner would show up here," Crewes says, voice pleasant. He sits down. Gregson props his foot up on the bench. 

"You were expecting us?"

"Of course. We get newspapers in here. I was actually expecting you and Detective D'Amico, Detective. Oh, wait. It's Captain now, isn't it?" He looks at Holmes. "You seem a little young to be a detective."

"I'll cut right to the chase," Gregson says, lowering his foot and stepping between them, breaking Crewes' eye contact with his soulmate. "What's the name of the guy you're working with?"

"I gave up anger a long time ago," Crewes says, cool as could be. "It was one of the only rational responses to the irrational situation my life had become." Gregson scoffs. "But you, standing there, accusing me," he trails off. "Well, I think that's the perfect test of my progress, isn't it?"

"What exactly do you have to be angry about," Gregson asks.

"As we both well know, I'm an innocent man. I spent years thinking about how to prove it, and when I finally gave up the quest, the world decided to prove it for me. It's like the man says. The strongest of all warriors are these two, time and patience." Gregson furrows his eyebrows and frowns.

"Tolstoy's War and Peace," Holmes says. "Your file says you were functionally illiterate when you confessed to the murders." Gregson glares at her. _What did I fucking say?_

"I had plenty of raw intelligence. What I didn't have were parents or a school system that gave a damn about me. And my confession, well. I gave that after my Legal Aid lawyer told me it was the only way of avoiding a guaranteed life sentence. He wouldn't take the time to prove my alibi." Gregson hears the hint of the old Crewes there. That anger, that cockiness.

"Carla Figueroa? Please. She recanted the second we asked her to make an official statement," Gregson replies.

"Well, of course she did!" There he is. Coming out to play. "Carla was married. If she admitted she was with me during the murders that would be the end of that, wouldn't it?"

"We found your fingerprints at the scene of the third murders in '99, remember?"

"You mean you _put_ my prints at the scene of the third murders in 1999. You and I both know that evidence was planted. Worked out pretty well for you, didn't it, _Captain_?"

Gregson glares. "I'm not even going to respond to that."

"The next time you and I speak to each other, we'll be standing on the courthouse steps after I'm exonerated of every charge against me."

"We'll see about that. We're done here," he directs to the guard, who escorts Crewes away.

Holmes comes around and sits on the bench, looking up at him. "What was that about?"

"What was what about?"

"He seemed truly sure those prints were planted." Gregson bristles.

"If you're saying that I-"

"Of course I'm not." He settles. "But I'm just wondering why he's latched onto that."

"It was the only physical evidence we had," Gregson replies. "The rest was all circumstantial, but solid."

"I don't doubt that."

Gregson takes a moment to calm himself down, and Holmes just watches him. 

"Come on, let's get out of here," he invites.

"I'd like to make a pit stop before we go back to the station."

"Another errand," Gregson asks.

"Of sorts. But this one, I'd like to do together." Gregson nods and they get back in the car. Holmes holds her phone between them, Google Maps already pulled up. Gregson follows the electronic voice to an address.

"10-20 31st Avenue, Astoria, Queens," Gregson says, confused. "You wanna tell me why we're here?"

"Last known address of Carla Figueroa." Gregson freezes. "I thought we might see if there's any truth to the notion that she recanted Wade Crewes' alibi to save her marriage." Gregson glares at her. "I'm just being thorough," she holds up her hands. 

"Go right ahead," Gregson growls. "I'm just telling you, I'm not gonna be here when you get back."

"Why are you so unwilling to even consider the possibility that Crewes is innocent?" There it is. What he knows she suspected for days, but never said out loud. "Is it pride?"

He puts his hand on the back of her seat and leans in. "Because I worked the case. You didn't."

"That's precisely why my input is so valuable," Holmes says, gaze steady. She's not the least bit afraid of him. He's grateful for it. He doesn't want to scare his soulmate away. 

"Look. We put Crewes away on good evidence. His prints were all over a mug that got broken when he was killin' the last two victims."

"The same mug he accused you of planting?" Her voice is quiet and Gregson actually hears pain in her voice. "When he said that, you swallowed twice before responding. And when you did, your vocal tone was markedly different. If I wasn't watching you, a man I have the highest respect for, I would say that that response was that of someone with something to hide." Gregson leans back, but she chases him. "Captain, _talk to me!_" 

"There's nothing to talk about."

A hand lands on the roof of his car, and Gregson looks. "My dad's going to go ape if he sees you two making out in our driveway," the young man there smiles and shrugs. "Just saying."

"We're not," Holmes says. "We're police. We need to speak with Carla Figueroa."

The kid looks down. "My mom died four years ago. Leukemia."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Gregson says.

"My dad's inside, if you want to talk to him," he offers.

"No, no. It had to be her. Thanks. Sorry to bother you," Gregson says, and the kid walks away. Gregson pulls out. 

"Well, if she was lying, her secret died with her," Holmes sighs.

"You're lucky I'm not making you walk, Holmes." She's quiet. "And she wasn't lying. Wade Crewes put on a good show today, I'll give him that. But if you really want to know why I won't waste my time trying to find out if he's innocent, I'll give you the tapes. He held his tongue, but he couldn't help gloating about it. _That's_ the real Wade Crewes." They're silent the rest of the drive to the police station. 

Gregson gets the old interrogation tapes together himself, putting them all in a box. He walks to Marcus' desk, where Holmes is leant over, writing something. He drops it in front of her, and she snatches her fingers back before they're crushed. "Go home and watch them."

"Captain-"

"Go. Home." He goes to his office. He stays there the rest of the day, and no new leads come. He goes home, frustrated.

The next morning, Holmes barges into his office. He still hasn't forgiven her for yesterday. "I've been struggling with something."

"First of all, good morning to you too. And second of all, Sherlock, I know I told you you could come talk with me any time, but you've really chosen the worst time to do it."

"Why did you give me the tapes?" Gregson looks at her, coffee halfway to his lips. "Did you honestly think I wouldn't notice?" _Notice what?_ But his police instincts tell him to stay silent, and they rarely steer him wrong. "The mug. The one that _you_ handed to Wade Crewes during your second interrogation of him." _Mug? What mug? We give suspects drinks in disposable cups._ Then he remembers- they had run out of cups that day. He only remembers because he had to walk all the way to the break room to get a mug. "It was the same mug that your people found at the third crime scene." He wants to ask her what she's talking about. He wants, he _wants_. But he has to find out for himself. "I need you to understand, I take no pleasure in pursuing this line of inquiry, but I am obligated to pursue the facts. And the fact is that you and Detective D'Amico had possession of that mug before it showed up at the third crime scene." He hangs up his coat and loosens his tie. She pauses, watching him, and only their breaths fill the silence. "As I said yesterday, I have the utmost respect for you," she whispers. He tightens his tie again. "_If_ evidence was planted, I'm sure it was the result of frustration. A mistake that the perpetrator or perpetrators no doubt wish to take back, especially now that it seems Wade Crewes may well be innocent." He takes a sip of coffee, trying to wet his dry throat. "You _know_ I'll find out the truth and the truth may well be just...compromising." 

Gregson lowers his mug. If Holmes was a guy, not his soulmate, and not his consultant, he would have decked her. "Every cop gets offered a few perks," he starts, trying to keep his voice level. "Free lunch here, free gym membership there. I never took a single one, and I sure as hell _never_ planted evidence." He looks straight into her eyes, willing her to believe him. 

"Well, then. Could you or your former partner please explain to me how that mug showed up at the crime scene?" 

Gregson opens the door. Holmes stands there for a second and then walks out. He shuts it behind her, trying not to slam it. He turns his head, watching Holmes walk out of the bullpen, closely followed by Watson. He puts his mug down on his desk and lays his hands flat against it to stop them from shaking. He needs to talk to D'Amico. He calls her.

"What gives," D'Amico asks, approaching him on the street, far away from the 11th. "Tommy, we can't just talk at the precinct?"

"Not about this." Her face hardens. "You planted that mug, didn't you?" She's silent. "Yeah," he says, quiet. "We knew it was him but we couldn't nail him. So after the second time we brought him in, you used the fact that we ran out of cups to your advantage. You kept the mug for insurance. Always good to have a trump card."

"I always assumed you knew that." Gregson's heart drops. It's one thing to think it, but to have her actually say that she did it?

"I knew it was convenient, piece'a evidence to turn up like that. I chalked it up to our good fortune because I thought we had our guy!"

"We did!"

"Well, I was a Hell of a lot more sure about that then than I am now! 'Cause someone's out there killing someone with the same murder weapon, Terry." He pauses. "What if we were wrong?"

"If that's true- and that's still a big 'if' as far as I'm concerned- there are ways around that!" He stares at her.

"I'm not here to plan a cover-up. If we put an innocent man in jail, I'm not keeping quiet about it."

"Alright, let's just forget about the fact that I could go to jail," D'Amico shrugs. "_You_ worked that task force in '99. How do you think that's going to play for your career?"

"I'll be done," he shrugs. He's accepted that. "Doesn't matter. If I let this happen on my watch, I'm owning up to it." He opens his car door. "Fair warning, _partner_." His phone starts to ring and he gets in the car. "Gregson."

"Captain," Marcus says. "Another murder. Three bodies this time. Looks like the same M.O."

"Address?" 

Marcus dictates and he writes it down in his notebook, putting it in his GPS. He drives off.

Gregson stares at the murders he could have prevented. Three more innocent people that would be alive now if he had put the right man in jail. He reaches into his pocket and takes out his phone, calling Holmes.

"Captain," the woman picks up. 

"I need you right away." He pauses. "It's happened again. A triple this time. Neighbor saw the bodies through the window."

"I'll be right there. And Captain, I think I might be able to tell you where the murder weapon is." Gregson's heart does a funny thing- it feels like it's simultaneously trying to leap into his throat and sink into his stomach. He swallows with a 'click'.

"What?"

"I'm in Victor Nardin's motel room, and there's an old gun of the correct caliber hidden beneath the floorboards."

"How'd you find him?"

"Chechen football. He's a rabid fan, there aren't that many bars that stream it live. There are three, all in Brighton Beach, all within walking distance of one Mayweather Hotel. I called and asked for one of his known aliases. Don't worry, I disguised my voice."

"How?"

When she replies, she does it with such a perfect New York accent that it makes his head spin. "A New York accent isn't hard to fake, Captain."

"I'll get a warrant." He hangs up. Sherlock makes it easy and hard for him at the same time. Luckily, he's learned which judges are friendly and which aren't over his career. "Judge Harrison," he greets.

"Tommy Gregson. How can I help?"

He explains the situation, conveniently leaving out the whole 'breaking and entering' part. Harrison signs the warrant.

"Amazing work on your detectives' part, thinking of looking up Chechen soccer."

Sherlock comes in the door, and she and Gregson lock eyes. "Thanks, Your Honor."

"You're welcome, Tommy. Goodbye."

"Goodbye." They hang up, and Sherlock makes her way over to him in that purposeful yet meandering way she has when in a crime scene.

"Michael and Elizabeth Willis," he starts, voice just loud enough to reach Sherlock from where she's standing against a bookshelf. They left their last meeting in a bad place. He wouldn't want to be around him, either. "Everything about their deaths is consistent with the others'."

"And the third body?" Sherlock's voice is just as quiet. He almost winces. She's angry with him or worse, disappointed. He didn't push it in '99, and now his soulmate thinks he's a dirty cop.

"Houseguest Garret Ames. I don't think the attacker knew he was there. After the Willises were shot, there was a struggle. Ames was trying to get away. Almost made it, too." Ames' body is just inside the back door. Poor guy. So close to surviving. Gregson aims an imaginary gun at the spot Ames would have been standing. "Killer shot him from right here." He sighs, dropping his arm. "Add another three to the tally."

"It's alright, Captain," Sherlock reassures, surprising him. "I know this is difficult." _You got that right._

"Well, at least CSU got us some evidence. They picked up cigarette butts from across the street." He walks over to a table and Sherlock follows him. He points and Sherlock picks up the evidence bag. He doesn't know what she's looking at, they're just butts. "Hopefully we'll be able to harvest some DNA. We put a BOLO out for Victor Nardin and we got a warrant for his hotel room. If the gun you saw _is_ the murder weapon, it's beginning to look like an open and shut case." Sherlock looks at Joan. 

"What is it," Joan asks. Sherlock puts the bag down and walks to where the killer had stood to shoot Ames.

"You said the killer shot the houseguest from here?"

"Yeah," Gregson says. _What are you doing?_ She holds out her arm, also holding an imaginary gun. He steps close to whisper to her. "Listen, I know you got your theories about what happened, but I just want you to know that if Wade Crewes is innocent, I'm not going to hide from that." Sherlock sighs and looks at him. 

"Sorry, Captain, could you just give me a moment?"

Gregson stares at her. He can feel his temper rising but forces it down. "I'm tryna tell you something important here."

"Yes, but I wouldn't fall on my sword just yet." Gregson's confused. First she accuses him of planting evidence, then when he says he'll own up to his actions, or _in_action, she waves him off? What the fuck? His phone rings, and he answers it, looking away.

"Gregson."

"We've got Nardin," Marcus says.

"Really?"

"He came back to his hotel room. Got him without a fight."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We're bringing him back to the station."

"Ok, yeah." He hangs up. "That was Bell. Nardin returned to his hotel room. We've got him in custody."

"Excellent," Sherlock says. _Finally. The only thing she's said today that makes sense._ "That should make it easier to confirm that he didn't do this." Sherlock walks away.

"What," Gregson demands. He follows Sherlock, Joan following him. She goes directly to his car and opens the passenger door. He closes it before she gets in, and she looks back at him. "Tell me."

"It's easier to demonstrate, Captain." He almost protests, but she just leans in. "Trust me," she smiles. 

Gregson looks at her eyes. There's excitement there. "I do."

"Good. Now let's prove Nardin innocent."

Gregson drives them to the station. He watches Sherlock pick up a fruit from the mostly-untouched bowl and walk to Interview One. Joan hurries after her and Gregson moves to follow them when he hears Sherlock's voice. "Victor Nardin. Think fast."

"Ah," he hears a cry. Gregson stops, more puzzled than anything else.

"What are you doing," Marcus demands. _Yeah, I'd like to know that too._

"This man is innocent. Detective Bell, a word?"

"Why she hit me," Nardin's accented voice shouts.

"Stay right there," Marcus orders, and shuts the door behind him. 

Sherlock walks past Gregson and opens his office. "Sure, you can use it," he says, passing her. Marcus, Joan, and Sherlock file in behind him.

"Do you see," Sherlock asks.

"See what? You assault our perp with an orange and that somehow convinces you that he's innocent," Marcus demands.

"I was testing a hypothesis I began to form while I was in Victor Nardin's hotel room." Sherlock sits on the couch. Gregson realizes that he's rarely seen her sit before. She sits with her back ramrod straight and her hands folded on her lap. _Old money, old manners. _"It was odd. Everything was out of alignment. All his toiletries lined up on the left side." She stands. "The same was true of his bedside table, his desk." Gregson just watches her, hand on his chin from where he's leant over his chair. _A chair,_ he muses, _in an office I probably won't have once this is over._

"So he favors his left side. Big deal," Marcus shrugs. 

"Agreed. Out of context, an utterly mundane detail."

"What is the context," Gregson asks.

"That's the question, Captain. There were also distinctive blue dots on the ceiling above his bed, like the kind a racquetball makes if it's repeatedly thrown upwards." Joan stands as Gregson waits for the rest.

"He was strengthening his depth perception," Joan says quietly. "But if you saw all that, then that means," she trails off. Gregson looks at her expectantly.

"Means what," Gregson asks.

"He's monocular," she replies. Gregson just shrugs. "He's blind in one eye." Gregson straightens. _Then that means..._ he lets himself hope.

"His right eye, to be exact," Sherlock adds.

"The same side you threw at," Marcus realizes.

"The man can hardly pour his orange juice accurately, let alone hit a moving target at twenty feet," Sherlock nods.

"If she's right, it'd be hard to pull off," Gregson admits to Marcus.

"In the dark, with adrenaline coursing through his system after a fight, I'd say it was impossible."

"But we've got evidence," Marcus protests. 

"Ah, right. The cigarette butts. Tell me, how does a smoker put out cigarettes when they're standing on the street," she asks.

"Step on 'em," Gregson shrugs.

"Exactly! You flatten it. The cigarettes you found were ground out, as if they were put out in an ashtray. Someone could have easily taken the butts out of Nardin's tray and put the gun under the floorboards before they left."

"Oh, so now Nardin's been framed, too," Gregson gestures, coming around his desk. He's getting sick of hearing about planted evidence. 

"I think that's a fair question. The only obvious culprit would be the one man who stood to benefit from someone else being implicated in the crimes." Gregson realizes what she's getting at, and she must see that because she nods.

"Wade Crewes," they say at the same time.

"But," he starts.

"He's working with someone on the outside," Sherlock says. "Someone with whom he shared the location of the murder weapon and the details of the murders in '99. By law, he has access to his case files. He could see a list of suspects' names, pick the most promising one."

"You've spent the last seventy-two hours insisting Wade Crewes is innocent," Gregson says, raising his voice. 

"What I've been insisting is that there's a connection," she approaches him. "We were both wrong. It's not a copycat, nor is it someone who committed the crimes with him back in '99. It's a protégé. The framing of Nardin is the final stroke in a plan that culminates in Wade Crewes walking free!"

"We've got five dead bodies," Marcus says. Gregson and Sherlock look at him. "Who would be willing to do something like that for a guy like Crewes?"

"I confess to not knowing."

"Then you've got nothing," Gregson says, heart sinking to his stomach again. With all this information, all these theories, the most important lead is out of their reach. They need the accomplice. "Believe me, no one wants you to be right as bad as I do," he says to Sherlock. "But all you've got is circumstantial evidence that might or might not mean that Nardin's been framed by Crewes' mystery partner. And if you _are_ right, we better identify that partner fast because it looks like the plan's working. Nardin will eat the charges, and Crewes. Will. Walk." He sits behind his desk.

"Captain," Sherlock starts.

"Don't waste your time talking to me," he tells her gently. "You do your thing and find that partner while we work it from our end." Sherlock nods and leaves his office, followed by Joan.

Gregson and Marcus work until dark. "Captain," Marcus says. "There isn't anything here. Holmes will get something, in the meantime I'll go over this again. You go home." Gregson nods and does.

"Tommy," Cheryl greets him. She must see something in his face. "What's wrong?"

He sits in his chair at the dinner table and loosens his tie. "You've seen the news about how Wade Crewes could be innocent?"

"Yeah, I've been meaning to ask you about that," she says, putting a plate in front of him. Steak and potatoes. His favorite. He cuts into it and takes a bite, but he doesn't taste it. He sighs. "Tommy, what is it?"

"He might be, he might not be. Holmes seems to think that Crewes and someone on the outside are working to frame a guy we have so that Crewes walks free."

"Holmes. Your soulmate." Cheryl's voice is icy. "Who could be working with Crewes?"

"We have no clue."

Cheryl comes around and puts her hands on his shoulders, gently kneading. "You'll find something. I know you will. Now eat." Tommy nods and does. And slowly, he starts to taste it.

Tommy's just about to go to bed when his phone rings. He looks at the caller I.D.- Sherlock.

"Yeah," he answers.

"Captain. I believe I've found Crewes' accomplice." He smiles. 

"How?"

"Well, do you remember how he quoted Tolstoy?"

"Sure." He doesn't, but that's not the point. "So?"

"He was illiterate when he went into prison, now he's reading 1,400 page books often enough that he can quote them from memory. Someone taught him how to read."

"Holmes, cut to the chase, it's late."

"I believe that Sean Figueroa is Crewes' son."

Gregson is stunned. "I'm coming."

"No. I will go with Detective Bell in the morning. You are going to stay at home, with your wife. And tomorrow, you will stay in your office. And then, once we have proof, we will go and we will speak with Wade Crewes together." Gregson knows that Sherlock's right.

"Alright, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, Captain."

"'Night." He hangs up.

"What was Holmes doing calling," Cheryl asks. "Did he find something?" Gregson very carefully never uses pronouns around her- she assumes that Sherlock is a man.

"Yes." He smiles, facing her. He wraps his arms around her waist, and she seems pleasantly surprised. "The accomplice."

"That's great, Tommy!"

"It is." He kisses her. "Let's go to bed."

The next morning, Gregson tries to focus on paperwork while Sherlock and Marcus are interviewing Figueroa. Someone knocks on his open door, and he looks up, grateful for the distraction. "Joan," he greets. She smiles and sits in the chair across from him. "How you doing?"

"I think I should be asking you that question." Gregson drops his pen and takes off his glasses.

"Nervous," he admits. "Excited. But mostly nervous."

"Do you trust Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Then you'll be fine." Gregson smiles softly. His phone rings. He looks at it and smiles wider. 

"It's Sherlock." He picks up. "Gregson."

"Sean Figueroa confessed to everything. And we have our evidence."

"What is it?"

"The shoes." Gregson will let the smugness slide. He sits back in his chair and puts his head back, relaxing for the first time since they found the Myroses.

"Thank Christ."

"Detective Bell and I are going to get them now, if you'd like to join."

"Address?"

She tells him and he writes it down. They hang up. 

"See," Joan asks with a smile.

Gregson laughs and nods. "Yeah." He picks up his jacket and puts it on, walking out of his office.

He could kiss Sherlock when she shows him where Figueroa said the shoes were and they turn out to be there. 

They go to Sing Sing, just the two of them. Wade Crewes comes in, smug as could be. Gregson takes the shoes out one by one, putting them on the table. Crewes' face falls further with each one. 

"What are those," Crewes asks.

"Your trophies," Sherlock says. This time, she and Gregson are side by side. "From each of the crime scenes in 1999. Thousand-dollar shoes."

"Your son told us where you hid them," Gregson continues. "Same place you stashed that pistol."

"What are you talking about? I don't have a son," Crewes denies.

"His name is Sean Figueroa, and he has quite a compelling story," Sherlock says.

"Five new murders, Crewes. Sean's going away, and you're getting five new conspiracy charges."

"No. You framed me." Gregson can see the old Crewes coming back and steps in front of Sherlock, backing them up when Crewes slams his hands on the table. "You bastard, you framed me!" The guards drag him off. "I'm only in here because of you! You bastard, you framed me," he says, before his voice fades. Sherlock steps out from behind him and leans against the table. 

"Satisfying," she asks. He smiles. 

"You have no idea."

Sherlock smiles back. 


	2. S1ep9- You Do It to Yourself (Marcus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus calls Holmes to consult on a case, and it takes them on a journey neither of them expected.

Marcus sighs when he sees the body. This one's a weird one- both eyes are shot out. And weird means Holmes. He shoots her a text.

When she arrives, Joan in tow, he looks at her. "You look like shit," he remarks. Her hair is messy like she just rolled out of bed, she's pale, and she's shivering. He'd chalk that up the rain, but she's completely dry.

"At least I still have my eyes." She sounds congested. He wisely takes a step back. "That makes three of us." He looks at Joan.

"Just a flu," she assures him.

"You didn't get your shot," he looks at Holmes. 

"I am fully vaccinated," she replies. "Doctors merely provide the vaccine for two strains of influenza 1, H1N1 AND H3N2, and one or two strains of influenza B that they believe will be most prevalent that year. I must have caught a strain that I was not vaccinated for."

"Still, I think I'll keep my distance." He turns his attention back to the body. "No wallet, which means no I.D. All we know is that he's a white male, mid to late 40s and the shots he took to the face were near-contact wounds. Thought I'd offer you a chance to look before we wrap up, but that was before I knew you were you know, dying." Holmes shoots him a dirty look.

"No shell casings, no skull fragments, no grey matter. He was killed elsewhere and then transported here."

"Yeah, tell me something I don't know."

"A pig's orgasm can last up to 30 minutes." While Marcus is trying to get that image out of his head, Joan goes up to Holmes. 

"I'm not your mother and I'm not your nurse, but if you die of exposure out here, I'm pretty sure your father won't give me my next check." _Personal valet. That must be quite a job, looking after Holmes. Though I guess she got a soulmate out of it._

Holmes ignores her, leaning over the body. Marcus watches as she crouches and picks up the corpse's wrist, examining it. There aren't any wounds there, just some kind of ratty bracelet, so he doesn't know why she's so interested in it. She also rubs the corpse's thumb between her fingers. She stands up. 

"Comfortable shoes but not tennis shoes. He was on his feet all day but his job didn't allow casual footwear." She takes a breath through her mouth. "Throw in the dry erase marker stains on his fingers and the laser pointer in his breast pocket and I'd say he was a professor." Marcus writes 'professor?' in his notebook. "Of East Asian Studies who's been to Thailand in the last few weeks." Marcus is writing that down before he realizes how specific that is and looks up. "The ratty cotton thread on his wrist is a _sai sin_ bracelet, attached to one's wrist when one enters a Thai Buddhist monastery." Marcus shakes his head at the specific knowledge Holmes has and keeps writing, not looking away from her. "Designed to unravel and fall away with time. Judging by the wear and tear on that one and assuming he kept a regular shower schedule, I would say that he got it approximately ten days ago."

"I'll start calling the local universities."

"University. Singular. Garrison." Holmes starts typing on her phone. 

"Why Garrison?"

"His tie- yellow and blue. The latter is a particular shade- Garrison blue. School colors. Go Wolverines."

"Alright. I'll contact Garrison."

"Don't ask for Professor Trent Annunzio," Holmes shows him her screen, where there's a picture of their victim. "I'm afraid he's quite dead."

"You would kill it on quiz shows," he remarks, putting away his notebook.

"I refuse to fill my head with the pseudo-intellectual twaddle that is their bread and butter."

"She doesn't know who Reese Witherspoon is," Joan tells him.

"You're kidding," he looks at Holmes.

"I don't watch many movies that most people consume for entertainment." She doesn't put air quotes around the last word, but they're heavily implied. She takes a handkerchief out of her pocket and sneezes into it.

"Bless you," Marcus says.

"Thank you."

The trio go to interview Mrs. Annunzio in the morning. She doesn't provide them with any clues or suspects. As they're leaving, Joan goes off on her own, leaving Marcus alone with Holmes for the first time.

"So," he says as he drives. Holmes looks at him. "What kind of a name is Sherlock? Does it mean anything?"

"Not that I can tell."

Marcus nods. "How did you first get into, what do you call it? Consulting detecting?"

"My fascination with all things murderous started when I was young. I had always collected knowledge and my ability to read people was unparalleled. So I decided to apply it in the quote-unquote real world."

"And what does your family think about it?"

"Don't care."

"You don't care what they think or they don't care about what you're doing?"

"Both. We're here." They pull into Garrison. When Marcus gets out, he notices Holmes sit for a second in the car, her eyes closed. He opens her door for her.

"You ok?"

"Yes, Detective." She gets out and they walk onto campus. Marcus goes to stop at a map, but Holmes tugs at his elbow and walks confidently into a building. They wind up in an office and Marcus flashes his badge.

"Hamsters stuff their cheeks like chipmunks," he starts.

"And they look just as adorable doing it," the woman at the front desk replies.

"Detective Marcus Bell. This is my associate, Sherlock Holmes. We're here to speak with someone about Trent Annunzio."

"I heard what happened to him," the woman at the front desk says, sighing. 

"Could you tell us the name of his teaching assistant," Holmes asks. "They might be able to shed some more light on his life."

"Uh, of course," the woman says, surprised that Holmes didn't greet her. "Do you need tissues," the woman offers a box.

"No thank you."

"His name is Brendan O'Brien," she says, putting the box back where it was. "He works in the same department as Professor Annunzio, East Asian Studies. It's in the Foreign Language building. Down the quad, it will be on your left. Medieval-looking, with griffin statues on either side of the door. Cant miss it."

"Thank you," Marcus nods. They walk out, and as soon as they get outside Holmes bundles herself up tighter in her coat. "Holmes, if you want, you can stay in the car."

"I'm fine, Detective."

"Alright, but if you faint, I'm not sure I can carry you." She looks at him. "Not that you're fat, it's just-"

"That my taller frame might make it more difficult for you," she nods. "I'm aware of what you meant."

Marcus easily picks out their building and jogs up the steps. Holmes walks up and he opens the door for them, letting her go first. She nods her thanks at him and they walk inside.

"Now, where would we find O'Brien," Marcus wonders.

"Excuse me," Holmes stops a woman. "Would you kindly direct us to Brendan O'Brien?"

"He's teaching a class right now," she says. "Room 308."

"Thank you." The woman walks away.

"How did you know she would know," Marcus asks.

"She had keys on her hip. She works in this building." Holmes pauses to sneeze into her handkerchief. "Also-"

"Save your breath," he stops her. "Let's go find him."

They find the room and wait outside the door. When class gets out, they go in. "Jalapeños are green but spicy. They should be red," he greets.

"That would be a great warning," Marcus nods.

"You guys aren't students," O'Brien says. 

"No. Police," Marcus says, showing his badge. "We're here to talk about Trent Annunzio."

"I heard," O'Brien nods.

"You were his teaching assistant," Marcus asks as O'Brien gathers his things. 

"Only for the last four years," he jokes. "Please," he gestures, and they follow him. "I guess you'll want to see his office?"

"If you'd be so kind," Marcus nods. He keeps an eye on Holmes as she walks. She looks bad, maybe even getting worse. "You ok," he asks quietly.

"Fine."

_I doubt that._ He's about to say so when O'Brien speaks up. "Almost there," he says.

"His wife told us he had to work late last night," Holmes says. "Something about a department meeting?"

O'Brien shakes his head, frowning. "He left here after his last class got out at 5:30. If there was a meeting, I would have heard about it."

"Think maybe he lied to his wife," Marcus asks Holmes.

"Or she lied to us?" Her brain is still working, so she must not be too bad. She sways, and he reaches out a hand to steady her. She straightens and follows O'Brien as he unlocks and opens a door. Marcus walks in and Holmes hovers at the door. "Professor Annunzio was chair of the department," he hears her say as he looks around. "Might I assume he had his pick of the offices on this floor?" O'Brien hums in agreement and Holmes walks in. 

"I'll be out here if you need anything," O'Brien says.

"Sort of cramped for a department chair, huh," Marcus asks. That's probably what made Holmes pause, and he thinks it's weird, too. He looks down and there's a ledger on the desk. "Appointment book. Maybe it'll tell us what he got up to last night."

"I find it unlikely that he'd write down that he routinely went to an underground Chinese gambling parlor." 

Marcus slowly looks up. "Excuse me?"

"That's what he was doing last night."

Marcus closes his eyes. "I know you're just waiting for me to ask you why you think that." Holmes is silent. "Why do you think that?"

"Glad you asked. It was the 13s." Marcus just shrugs. "His apartment number was 13, his cellphone number ends in 1313, and he chose this office- number 13- when he could have had the far brighter and more spacious one across the hall, number 14. Why? Because 14 is an unlucky number in Chinese gambling. 13 is the opposite. Annunzio spoke fluent Mandarin, surely he could talk his way into the _mahjong_ or _Pai Gow_ parlors in Chinatown."

"Maybe he's a gambler," Marcus says, even though everything Holmes is saying is making sense. "Doesn't mean he was gambling last night."

"Did you not notice his underwear?" Marcus just looks at her.

"No, I don't tend to notice someone's underwear."

"Bright red boxers," Holmes recounts. "It's traditional for Chinese gamblers to wear red for luck. His clothes also reeked of cigarettes, yet his teeth were pearly white, not smoker yellow," she points at a picture of him with what Marcus assumes is some students. "He was gambling, and he was gambling in a smoky room." Marcus looks around and picks up and opens a small black box. 

"Starting to think you're right." He tips out the contents onto the desk. Holmes comes around to take a look. "_Mahjong_ tiles."

"Those are different sizes, they're different colors, they belong to different sets," Holmes notes. "_Mahjong_ tiles come in pairs, why would he only hang on to one of each?"

"Because these tiles aren't for playing," Marcus says, pleased he can finally know something- besides who Reese Witherspoon is- that Holmes doesn't. "They're membership cards to underground casinos." He cocks his head. "Aren't you going to ask me how I knew that?" Holmes doesn't, instead just looking at him. "Fine, whatever," he mutters, a little ticked. He humors her when she normally just explains with Joan and the Captain. Why should he ask? And if he asks, why doesn't she? "When I was in Vice, poker clubs would give out personalized chips to repeat customers to reward loyalty and weed out cops." He picks up a tile. "Show these, skip the line. Chinatown Vice can tell us which parlors use which tiles." Holmes sways on her feet again, and Marcus reaches out to steady her.

"I'm fine, Detective," Holmes says, steadying herself on the desk.

"Come on," he says. He pauses before he offers his arm. Holmes looks at it for a moment before she takes it.

"Thank you," she says, so quiet he can barely hear her. He doesn't answer, just to pretend. They go back to the car.

"You can lie down in the back," he offers. Then he looks at his backseat. "Actually, it might be a little small. Kick back your seat."

She does, closing her eyes. She stays there until they get to the precinct, where she sits up without any prompting when they pull into the parking lot. 

"How did you," he starts.

"I felt the car park."

"I didn't stop yet."

"The parking lot."

"You felt it," he repeats.

"It's obvious once you've felt it once."

"Fine, whatever." They walk in, and the Captain sees them from where he's talking with a detective.

"Sherlock," he says. "God, you look awful." All Holmes does is hum. "Come here." Holmes steps closer and he puts the back of his hand on her forehead. "You're burning."

"My temperature has been steadily declining since last night. It's now hovering around 100 degrees."

"I'm not gonna even ask you how you know that. Go take a nap on my couch."

"I'm fine. I'll just sit in the conference room where it's quiet." She goes.

"Any luck," the Captain asks Marcus.

"Some solid leads." He debriefs him, and the Captain nods.

"Good work."

Marcus smiles. "Thanks. I'm just gonna go make some calls."

He goes to his desk and sees the Captain go into the conference room. Holmes doesn't open her eyes from where she's leant back in a chair, but he seems to be talking at her. She shakes her head. The Captain nods and touches her shoulder. Marcus returns his attention to his phone.

Once he gets the right addresses, he goes to get Holmes. He opens the door to find the woman flat on her back on the table.

"Are we going to Chinatown," she asks.

"Yes."

"Good. I'll text Watson. Address?"

Marcus dictates it to her, and she texts faster than anyone he's seen. He's begrudgingly impressed. She gets off the table and follows him to the car. She takes out a digital recorder.

"Today's high tide took place at exactly 6:45 today, and the low tide will take place at 12:43. Crime rate is up 2.7% from last year at this time." Marcus opens his mouth to ask her what she's doing, but she holds up a hand. Marcus shakes his head and drives to Chinatown.

They check two of the three addresses, with no luck. He sighs in relief when he sees Joan waiting for them outside the last address. Holmes pauses the recorder and shuts up.

"Oh good. You're here. You can deal with her," Marcus says when they reach Joan. 

"Everything ok?"

"In addition to her looking like she's going to collapse at any moment, she's been yammering into her digital recorder about the effect of the tide on the crime rate in New York."

"I'm considering writing a monograph," Holmes says.

"I'll keep an eye out for it," he replies. 

Marcus tries, and fails, to find someone who speaks English. He's about to give up and ask if either of the women speak Mandarin when Holmes clears her throat. "You," she says to a man in a dirty apron holding a mop. "You recently applied bleach to this section of the floor, did you not?"

"Holmes, he doesn't speak English," Marcus says. Maybe the fever _is_ frying her brain. 

"We both know that you understand me, just like we both know that you're not the janitor," Holmes ignores him. "You may have put that apron on, but you're still wearing bespoke Italian shoes." Marcus looks down- she's right. "I think you own this place, and if you do you need to communicate with suppliers, vendors. So," she says, and clears her throat again. "You recently applied bleach to this section of the floor and this section of the floor only. I would like to know why."

The man sighs. "We had a drunk in the club," he says, and Marcus hides his shock. "He threw up here."

"On an area this large? And with such force that you had to spackle the wall? I suggest that you either stop serving that particular cocktail or just admit that there was a shooting here last night and you dug two slugs out of the wall." The parlor boss doesn't say anything. "Fine! Let's let the video decide."

"What video," the boss asks.

"The one you recorded on that," she points, and Marcus follows it. 

"Holmes, that's a smoke detector."

"Positioned directly over a hibachi grill? I don't think so." Marcus admits that that's weird. "I subscribe to several personal security catalogues, I recognize the model. Would you like to take it from here, Detective?"

"Show us the footage or you'll never deal another hand in this place," Marcus threatens. The boss sighs.

"Go get my computer."

They watch the video. "You may not want to watch this part," Marcus warns Joan. The perp shoots Annunzio in the head, and she gasps and turns away. "I take it we have you and your guys to thank for dumping him under Manhattan Bridge?"

"Hey, we were victims too," the boss grumbles.

"What about the other angle," Holmes asks.

"What other angle," Marcus asks, glaring at the boss.

"The hallway we took to get down here was 80 feet long. If he had come down it with a mask, the bouncer would have had plenty of time to subdue him or sound an alarm. So he came down the hall, barefaced, and then attacked." She looks at the boss. "I understand you are searching for him yourself so you can get your money back and exact whatever revenge you deem fit, but," she prompts. The boss clicks. They see the man attack the bouncer. _Man, why does he have to be black?_ "Detective Bell, I give you Trent Annunzio's murderer."

They head back to the precinct after getting the video. The Captain is busy and Holmes and Joan go down to where Holmes likes to hole up. Meanwhile, Marcus sets his computer up to scan mugshots. 

"What's up," the Captain asks.

"I'm telling you, if Holmes and Joan teamed up, they'd crush any game show. Joan would have all the human knowledge part and Holmes would get the overly specific things." The Captain chuckles. "But to be honest, I'm worried about Holmes."

"Why?"

"She just seems to be getting sicker." 

The Captain sighs, leaning up against Marcus' desk. "She's on a case. I know her, there's no way she's stopping. Just have to wait until the case ends."

"Or she collapses," Marcus mutters. Unfortunately, the Captain heard him. 

"You think she's going to pass out," he asks, and he's really concerned now.

"Looked a little wobbly a few times today," Marcus admits.

"I'll go talk to her." Marcus' computer pings and both men look over. 

"Bingo. Got our killer." Marcus prints out the rap sheet including the mug shot. "I'll talk to her if you're busy."

"I'd appreciate that, Marcus." Marcus makes a call before he goes downstairs.

"Finally found something in the photo system," Marcus says, handing Holmes the paper. "Raul Ramirez. Served stretches in Sing Sing for rape and armed robbery. ESU and a couple of our guys are heading over to his place in Bushwick right now. All we have to do is wait." Marcus pauses. "Maybe you should head home."

"I gave her some tea. It should make her feel better," Joan says.

"Apparently, it will give me a more dilated and longer lasting erection." Marcus just stares at her. "Want some?"

"Sherlock, you're sick. You cannot share drinks," Joan scolds. 

"That's what worried you about that sentence," Marcus asks.

"She's joking," Joan says.

"I'm sure your sexual prowess is unparalleled, Detective," Holmes says.

"Please never refer to my sexual anything ever again." Holmes shrugs. Marcus goes upstairs.

"How is she," the Captain asks.

"Joan said she should be feeling better soon."

"What'd she give her?"

"Tea, apparently."

"That's it," the Captain asks.

"Chinese herbs," Joan says, coming up behind Marcus. "They hinder the movement of neutrophils and improve the function of protective cilia."

_Among other things_, Marcus can't help but think.

"What are those," the Captain asks.

"Neutrophils are white blood cells, cilia is what sweeps mucus out," Joan explains.

"Don't you want white blood cells to work?"

"When you get sick, they can sometimes get a little overzealous," Joan smiles. "Raise your temperature too high. This should bring it down."

"Good. How you feeling," the Captain directs to Holmes, who had wandered up next to Joan.

"The same."

Soon enough, Ramirez is brought in and Marcus and Holmes follow him in after a minute.

"Well, hello," Ramirez purrs. "If I'd known a sweet thing like you'd be waiting for me, I'd get arrested more often."

"Holmes, maybe you should go," Marcus tries, but she just walks past him and sits down.

"You call her 'homes,'" Ramirez asks. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Holmes."

Ramirez starts to laugh. Marcus puts the video still of Ramirez attacking the bouncer on the table and he stops. "This picture? Doesn't look good," Marcus says. "Neither do the wallets you stole from the _mahjong_ parlor we found in your trash, including Trent Annunzio's, covered in his dried blood." He puts them all on the table. "Hook." He points to the video still. "Line." The various wallets. "Sinker." Annunzio's blood.

"What if I give somebody up to you guys," Ramirez asks. "Get some sort of special consideration or something?"

"That depends. Who you talking about," Marcus asks.

"Guy who hired me."

"You were hired to do what you did," Holmes questions, just as disbelieving as Marcus. Ramirez unfolds his arms and seems to think about something.

“Look, I get home one night last week, ok? There’s an envelope pushed under my door. I look inside. It’s a thousand dollars in cash. All of a sudden, my phone rings.” Next to him, Marcus can hear Holmes breathing through her mouth. That tea doesn’t seem to be working. “Guy on the other end says he knew me from the neighborhood. Says he knows about my rap sheet, everything. Says he’s got another nine grand for me-”

"If you kill Trent Annunzio," Marcus finishes, nodding.

Ramirez shakes his head slightly. "Not just kill him. Shoot him once in each eye."

"Did he say _why_ he wanted him shot in the eyes," Holmes asks, then leans over and coughs violently into her handkerchief.

"Damn, you sick," Ramirez whines. "I'm not about to catch nothing."

"She's fine," Marcus says. "Did he say why?"

Ramirez shakes his head, keeping a close eye on Holmes. "Supposed to shoot him tomorrow night, when he was walking from his office to his car. Thing is, I'd been tailing the dude for a few days. Followed him into that gambling parlor. Saw it was fat with cash. Figured if I saw him go in there again," he shrugs. "Two birds with one stone."

"Did you ever meet with this guy," Marcus asks.

Another head shake. "He always just called or texted. And his voice was real scrambled up on the phone, too." Marcus and Holmes just look at him. "Check my cell phone," Ramirez gestures. "You'll see the pictures he sent me." Holmes opens her mouth, but ends up sneezing into her handkerchief. She sneezes a few more times, leaving the room. The interview is over, so Marcus follows her, finding the Captain touching her shoulder.

"I'm fine, Captain," she says through the cloth. 

"Yeah, and you'd be better if you go home."

"I'm not going home," she says, gasping and lowering the cloth. Marcus walks away to get Ramirez's cell. 

They reconvene in the Captain's office. The Captain starts flicking through it, seeing what Marcus already has- it confirms Ramirez's story. He was hired to kill Trent Annunzio in the way that he did. "Ramirez's story checks out so far," Marcus says. "Someone texted him that picture two days ago. Told him where Annunzio parked, too."

"I'm guessing the guy who hired him used a disposable cell," the Captain asks. 

"Yeah, prepaid burner. Only calls incoming or outgoing were to and from Ramirez."

"Ok, if this isn't random, who had it in for this guy Annunzio," the Captain asks, handing the phone to Holmes. She looks at it briefly, then hands it to Joan.

"If it was the person who took this picture, then it was a friend. Or a family member, maybe," Holmes suggests. 

"You still sound bad," the Captain says, voice gentle. 

"I'm fine," Holmes insists. 

"Huh," Joan says quietly. 

"What is it," the Captain asks.

"Just, the bottom left of this photo. There's a discoloration. A rectangle that's lighter than the rest." She hands the phone back to Holmes, who zooms in.

"I must be sicker than I thought," Holmes says, eyebrows rising. "I don't know how I missed that. Good catch, Watson." The Captain walks behind Holmes to see, and she angles it so he can. "This is a reflection. Of a window, from the shape of it. Which means that this is a photograph of a photograph." She pauses to sneeze. "The original was under glass," she manages, then sneezes again. The Captain grabs a box of tissues from his desk and offers it. Holmes takes a few and blows her nose, sighing. "The frame cropped out." She sounds a little less congested. 

"Well, there were a lot of framed photos at the house," Joan points out. Marcus thinks back, trying to remember if he saw this particular one.

"This wasn't taken at the house. See this shape? A square, inside a circle? That's a Chinese good luck charm that Annunzio kept in the window of his office." She hands the phone back to the Captain. 

"Then all we have to do is find someone who had access to Annunzio's office and lives in Ramirez's neighborhood," the Captain says.

"I know just the man," Holmes says. "We met him," she looks at Marcus.

"O'Brien," he asks. Holmes nods. "How do you know where he lives?"

"Ghastly keychain of a gym in Bushwick."

"Then let's go search his house," the Captain says. They get a warrant and drive over.

Marcus turns around after O'Brien confesses and finds the Captain and Holmes talking quietly. If he didn't know any better, he'd say she was blushing.

"I don't know what you two are talking about," he interrupts. "But you just missed the show. O'Brien just confessed to everything."

"Thank God for stupid people," the Captain says, smiling. Holmes looks unsure.

Holmes comes to Marcus the next morning. "I think we need to revisit Mrs. Annunzio," she says. She seems healthier- no congestion, no sneezing, she's not as pale.

"Why," Marcus asks.

"I'll explain on the way."

Marcus sighs and puts on his coat. Holmes waits until they're in the car to speak. 

"I think Mr. O'Brien and Mrs. Annunzio were having an affair," she says.

"What makes you say that?"

"When I was perusing everything the Captain gave me access to that pertained to Mr. O'Brien, I noticed something odd. He downloaded over a hundred songs last month alone."

"That's a lot of music," Marcus admits. "But that doesn't explain why you think they had an affair."

"Almost all of them were love songs."

"And why do you think they were for Mrs. Annunzio?"

"I saw mix CDs at her house. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but they happened to be the same songs that Mr. O'Brien downloaded."

"Alright," Marcus nods. "That sounds promising."

They arrive at the Annunzio home. Holmes explains her thinking. "Not the grandest of romantic gestures, but it's not as though he could afford expensive jewelry for you on a T.A.'s salary. You should have seen his face when the police found that burner phone in his home. He was stunned. Probably because he had no idea it was there. You put it there, didn't you," she asks. Marcus is just as surprised as Mrs. Annunzio, but hides it. 

"I don't know anything about a phone," Mrs. Annunzio claims.

"There's one thing that still puzzles me- why he confessed. I've been mulling it over. The way I see it, it's one of two possibilities. One; he figured that you'd left it there by mistake and planned to come back to retrieve and destroy it, having no idea that the police would find it first. Or two; he's the ultimate sap. He realized you were framing him and loved you so much that he took the fall anyway. Either way, he comes off looking a bit dim."

"Please, I'd like you to leave now."

"If you have something to tell us, the sooner the better, Mrs. Annunzio," Marcus says. Nothing like a little 'good cop, bad cop.' Or, in this case, 'good cop, bad not-really-a-cop.' "Not just for Mr. O'Brien, but for you, too."

Mrs. Annunzio sighs and goes to a bookcase. She takes down a book. "This is an old manual given to Chinese political police," she explains, giving it to Marcus. He gives it a glance and hands it to Holmes- it's in Mandarin. "It teaches how to beat a suspect but leave no marks. He used these techniques to hurt me. And he also made me...do things. Sex things. Horrible things, while he taped them."

"Let's say we believe you, Mrs. Annunzio," Marcus says. "That doesn't justify murder."

"I had nothing to do with Trent's death. I don't believe Brendan did, either. I don't know how the phone used to contact Trent's killer ended up in Brendan's apartment, but I do know he would never take a life."

"Respectfully, Mrs. Annunzio. You just told us that your husband was a sadist and a pervert. Assuming that's true, why should we trust your judgement," Holmes asks. 

"Trent was not my husband." Marcus looks at Holmes, who looks back at him. She didn't see that one coming, either. "He promised to marry me when he asked me to come live with him in America, but he went back on his promise. He knew I could not go to the police without revealing my status," she whimpers. "I could be deported." She looks back into the room where her daughter is playing. 

"And when did Brendan come into the picture," Holmes asks.

"He came to the house one day to leave something for Trent. He saw me crying. He held me. Then he spoke, and we discovered we were soulmates," she smiles, wrapping her arms around herself. "When the time was right, I was going to leave Trent and Brendan and I were going to marry."

"You just admitted that you lied to us when you told us Trent was your husband. Why should we believe you now," Holmes asks.

Mrs. Annunzio- Jun- looks desperate for a second before she gasps. "The videos! He saved them on his computer." She sits in the chair and starts it up. "There's even one in which he beat me."

_Sick son of a bitch._ They watch her open a folder named 'Cultural Revolution Course.' It's empty. Jun starts to cry. "They were here! They were all here!"

"I think it's time we took this back to the station," Marcus says. Jun goes without a fight. Marcus wishes there was another way. As he passes the front room, he looks at the infant, playing with a teething ring. She looks at Jun. 

"Mama," she holds her arms up.

"Can I hold her," Jun asks.

"Yeah," he nods.

She picks her up and kisses her face. She says something in Mandarin. Holmes stops next to him. 

"I guess she's saying that she loves her and goodbye," Marcus sighs.

"You would be correct."

"You speak Mandarin?"

"Not as well as I'd like."

Marcus sighs. "Jun. It's time to go. You can take her, we'll get an officer to look after her."

Marcus works at his desk the next morning, trying to find something, _anything_, to hint as to an alternative explanation of why the burner was found in O'Brien's apartment.

"Detective," Holmes leans in.

"Not now, Holmes."

"I found who really killed Trent Annunzio." He looks up. "I'll tell you and the Captain at the same time." He follows her and Joan into the Captain's office. Marcus watches him straighten when he sees her. Holmes hands the Captain a piece of paper eagerly. He puts on his glasses and studies it for a moment. She hands Marcus another paper. He doesn't know what that picture is supposed to be of.

"I'll bite. What exactly am I supposed to be looking at here," Marcus asks.

"Melanoma cells," Holmes replies. "The medical examiner found them in what was left of Trent Annunzio's eyes."

"He had cancer," Marcus questions.

"Not just any cancer. Uveal melanoma. It's as painful as it is untreatable," Holmes says.

"It's likely he had only a few months to live," Joan chimes in, handing Marcus the M.E.'s report.

"I'm confused. You said on the phone that you knew who killed Trent Annunzio," the Captain says.

"I do. Trent Annunzio," Holmes says. The men look at each other. "Imagine for a moment that he is exactly the man that Jun said he was. He tortured her physically, psychologically, sexually. Now imagine that he finds out that his favorite plaything/punching bag is having an affair with her soulmate, his T.A. He can't have that, can he? So he formulates a plan. The problem was, he started having tremendous eye pain. He consults a doctor. He learns his fate. Rotten luck or instant karma, you choose. But Annunzio is left reeling. All he had left was his anger and his intellect. So he devised a plan that not only punished Jun and her lover, but also deliver him from a slow and agonizing death. He's the one who found Raul Ramirez and hired him." 

"After that, it was only a matter of gaining access to O'Brien's apartment, probably with a stolen key," Joan continues.

"He planted evidence that would implicate O'Brien and then he writes to Berkley, dissuading them from hiring O'Brien. He knew it would be motive. Then to destroy any evidence."

"The videos," Marcus realizes.

"And then his eyes," Holmes gestures to her own. "The only thing he didn't- and couldn't- account for is his would-be assassin. He expected to be killed at his office, where there would be no doubt that someone he knew killed him. Instead, it looks like a robbery gone wrong, which is the last thing he wanted. He wanted all blame to sit squarely on O'Brien's shoulders." Marcus looks at the Captain to see what he thinks, but he's just watching Holmes. "It's not a perfect theory but it _fits_, Captain."

"Look, it's a great story," the Captain says. "But we can't cut O'Brien loose on a story. Not with the phone and the confession he signed." He stands up and crosses in front of his desk to where Holmes is standing. Marcus thinks, for a fraction of a second, that he's going to kiss her. But they're not that kind of soulmate. Are they? 

"What about Jun," Joan asks quietly.

"We didn't have enough to hold her, we cut her loose to I.C.E. They've already started deportation proceedings." Holmes exclaims and turns away. She starts to pace. "Sherlock-"

"What do we need," Holmes cuts him off.

"Get me evidence. Good, solid evidence. Then I'll see what I can do."

Holmes looks at Joan and both women leave.

"What do you think," Marcus asks.

"I think if it's a master plan concocted by the victim, it's a fucking good one."

"Do you think Holmes is right?"

"She's not often wrong." 

Marcus sighs. "I hope she's right," he mutters. 

"Me too, Marcus." The Captain looks at him. "We both could use some sleep. Go home."

"I want to look over everything one more time. See if anything comes up that supports Holmes' theory now that I have it in mind."

"Good night, Marcus."

"Night, Captain."

The next morning, Marcus is sitting at his desk when Holmes bounces in. And he does mean 'bounce;' she's practically floating. "What's got you so peppy," he asks. He's still angry and upset at how Jun's being treated.

"I believe I have something in regard to my theory about Annunzio."

"Yeah," he perks up.

"Watson and I thought of it this morning."

"Holmes, you're really going to make me ask?"

"Watson pointed out that hiring a hitman is difficult at the best of times. When you're limited by geography, it's even harder. So I suggested that he may have looked at a list of men he thought would kill for money."

"On what, the Dark Web?"

"No," she smiles. "He typed O'Brien's address into the sexual predators watch network and looked at who came up. Guess who did."

"Ramirez."

"He was second."

"Second? Who was first?"

Sherlock gives him the name. "He lives in O'Brien's building. One of the crimes of which he was convicted was putting cameras in women's restrooms. Perhaps he put one up for security."

"You're sure?"

"Reasonably."

"Then let's go."

Marcus watches a smile cross the Captain's face when they tell him about the video. "Good work, you two," he says, looking at them. He looks at Marcus first. 

"Thanks, Cap," he says.

Marcus brings in Brendan O'Brien, newly freed. He stands back to watch his and Jun's reunion. 

As Holmes passes them embracing, she leans in. "Good show, Mr. O'Brien." She walks out the door, leaving Marcus wondering why she said that.


	3. S1ep10- The Leviathan (Sherlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is put on what she thinks will be a run-of-the-mill vault heist. Little does she know what's in store for her.

Sherlock walks towards the front door, pulling on a shirt as she goes. "Good morning," Olivia says, smiling as she passes her. She smiles back, then finds an unamused Watson. 

"Watson," she says. Watson doesn't respond as someone repeatedly rings the doorbell. "If you must know, the Lynch sisters and I enjoy a mutually beneficial relationship."

"'If I must know?' I didn't ask."

"I get to study the differences between two specimens born into the world with exactly the same genetic material. In the Lynch sisters, for example, I've found seven major ones. And they get-"

"I! Didn't. Ask."

Sherlock hides her smile. How she loves teasing Watson. She's always so Victorian about sex. It would do her good to have some once in a while.

"If that's for me, I'm not here," Sherlock calls at Watson's retreating back. "I'm going back to bed after I see the Lynches off."

"If rabbits could talk, they would call jackrabbits simply 'jacks,'" the man on the other end greets.

"By that logic, if bears could talk they would call the stuffed animals simply Teddy."

"Good morning. Does Sherlock Holmes live here?" _Unsure. New client. Don't recognize the voice. Referral? But why didn't he assume Watson was me?_ "I was referred here by an old colleague of hers back in London." _Harris? No, he wouldn't send anyone my way, he's too proud to admit he needed a consulting detective. Coutier? She seems likely, but she doesn't have any contacts in the colonies. Kerry could be a possibility..._ "He said I might have to try more than once." _Ah. Phillips then._

"Good advice," Watson replies.

"Uh, would you please tell her I need to speak with her?" There's a rustling that means that the man reaches into his pocket to draw out a card. _If he has a card, then he's either important or just thinks/hopes he is._

"Why don't you tell her yourself?" Watson leaves, the man standing aside to let her pass. Sherlock is forced to go to the door.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," she introduces, and the man frowns slightly, then relaxes.

"Yes, I'd like to hire you. May I come in?"

"I suppose." Sherlock stands aside and leads the man to the kitchen. _Intelligent. Confident. Rich, but not inherited. A made man._ "So. Who are you," Sherlock asks, gesturing at the table. He sits. She pours out two cups of coffee and hands him one.

"Thank you. I'm Micah Erlich," he starts.

"Of Casterly Rock security," Sherlock notes. "You are president and head engineer. I know your work." She takes a sip of coffee.

"Then you know that we introduced a new flagship product in 2009."

"Crepe," she offers, turning and pointing.

"No thank you."

"Bye, Sherlock," Gwen wishes. Sherlock nods at her. Erlich only spares her a parting glance.

"The Leviathan," Erlich continues.

"Yes, the safe that was marketed as impregnable. Did you people learn nothing from the Titanic?" Sherlock sits at the table next to him with her crepes and starts to eat. 

"Bye, Sherlock," Olivia passes the door. 

Erlich glances at her and then faces Sherlock again, opening his mouth. Then he stops and looks back at the door. "Were they-"

"Identical twins, yes. But the Leviathan was indeed pregnable, as showcased when one was plundered within the calendar year it was sold."

"The four men who robbed that bank were brilliant," Erlich sighs. "A once-in-a-lifetime assembly of criminal talent. Now, eventually all four were caught and convicted, but none of them told us how they did it. We did what we could to improve the product, but the chance of a group of criminals that bright collaborating again?" Erlich shakes his head at his presumed absurdity of it all.

"And yet here you sit."

Erlich looks away. "The Svalbard Diamond Exchange was robbed last night. They're missing 40 million dollars in stones."

"Stones protected by your vault."

"The Leviathan has a seven figure price tag," Erlich stresses. "If someone finds out that another one's been compromised and we don't know how, we're done."

"The police must be looking for _who_ robbed your vault. I take it the _how_ is where I come in?"

"I think there must have been a fifth conspirator," Erlich leans in as if someone else was in the kitchen with them that he doesn't want hearing what he's about to say. "Someone the other thieves never told us about. And-"

"Poppycock," Sherlock interrupts him. Erlich frowns. "The height of intellectual vanity. If one group of people can figure out how to break in, then so can another. And another, _ad nauseum._"

"You don't understand. We have six layers of bleeding-edge security," Erlich insists. _Rubbish. I'll be back in bed before my body will have time to digest the crepes._ "Redundancy at every step."

"If you want to know how someone got into your vault, take me to the diamond exchange. We'll talk fee on the way, but I really don't know what I'll charge for a job that'll only take an hour or two." She starts to walk away. "Be back in a moment!" She gets dressed and leaves a note for Watson. _Watson. Gone with Micah Erlich to see how thieves robbed the Svalbard Diamond Exchange. Won't be long, two hours at the most. Feel free to help yourself to the crepes._

They get in Erlich's driver's car and agree on a fee- it's less than what she charged Canon Ebersole, that's for sure. But it'll still be a nice amount for her trouble. Not that it will be much trouble at all. There are several factors that Sherlock takes into account when she calculates how much money she'll accept on a job- the financial state of her client first and foremost, then how stimulating the case will be. This one won't be difficult and Erlich makes a tidy living for himself, so Sherlock takes that into account. 

They arrive at the diamond exchange and Sherlock examines its security- it's not impressive. "It's down here," Erlich gestures, and Sherlock follows him down the stairs.

"The security upstairs is rather rudimentary. I take it anything of real value is stowed in the vault after hours," Sherlock says.

Erlich nods and is about to speak when he's distracted by a man calling his name. "The police said that your consultant can't see the vault until they're done."

"I'm also a consultant with the NYPD, Mr," she trails off.

"Batonvert. David Batonvert. I'm the floor manager here." He hides his surprise at her lack of a greeting well.

"I can assure you I know how to conduct myself at a crime scene, Mr. Batonvert. Your name means 'green stick' in French." Batonvert just nods, confused. "So," Sherlock starts, pointing as she walks. "You have a motion sensor embedded in the ceiling, a light sensor on the wall. Cardboard box can take care of the motion sensor, the light detector they'd simply mask with black tape." She moves on, Erlich and Batonvert following her. "They made short work of that lock," she points to it as she passes it. _Not surprising, I could do that one in my sleep._ "Body heat sensor in the ceiling can be coated with hairspray, that would buy them some time, with brings us to," she stops in front of the Leviathan herself. She smiles. "The door itself, yes." She examines it. "She is beautiful." Behind her, she hears the slight rustle of fabric that means Erlich straightened with pride. "This lock is not pickable, that key is what, a foot long," she asks, looking at the side of the door. "Tumblers weighted so that they cannot be manipulated with a pick," she gestures. "You could, of course, put a tiny camera on this fire extinguisher," she says, examining it. "If you knew an excellent locksmith, you could provide an image of the key, have a duplicate made."

"Clever, but we already knew that," Erlich says. She can hear that he's beginning to doubt her. At least she got the promise of payment already. 

"Ten digit access code?"

"Yes, it's provided by a random number generator that's hardwired into the system," Batonvert chimes in. "The code changes every two minutes."

"Who has the code?"

"It appears on a key fob the owner carries," Erlich replies. "If you want to get in, he has to read it to you. He's in Gstaad right now. He's had the fob on him the whole time."

"You could attack the random number generator," Sherlock muses. "Make it spit out a pattern so you could predict the code."

"The number generator is working perfectly," Erlich refutes, a tad testy. Though, that's understandable- it's his coding, after all. 

Sherlock looks at the Leviathan again. That exhausts her current ideas. "I'm going to need a little time with this." She drops smoothly into a cross-legged position on the floor, facing the safe.

_No camera on the fire extinguisher, so no image of the key. Of course, if they did get down here, they could get some putty in to get an imprint, but there's no sign that they did, it would leave residue. Lock outside would be easy enough to pick, but no sign it's been repeatedly picked, minimal scratches on the outside. No combination lock, so any of those techniques are right out. The only thing left is the RNG. _She stands and goes to the panel, inputting a series of incorrect codes and getting a rejection every time. She studies the numbers that flash on the screen, wondering if there's any link between them and the true code, but as she works on it for a few minutes, she notices that they're the same every time.

"What are you doing down here," Watson asks from behind her. 

"Stress-testing the keypad," Sherlock replies. "You'd think there'd be some tell in the keys themselves, but each of them need the same amount of pressure to activate," she continues. "And none of the numbers show any more wear than the last."

"No, I mean what are you _still_ doing down here?" Sherlock looks back at her, confused. "You said you were going to be gone two hours, it's been all day!"

"Has it?" She'd lost track of time, then. No windows down here to check the progression of the sun. 

"How stubborn are you going to be about this?"

"Uh, excuse me, we're closing now, Ms. Holmes," Batonvert says.

"Greenstick, do you want your diamonds back or not," she asks him. The man leaves.

"That wasn't very nice," Watson scolds her. Sherlock ignores her. _I'm not a nice person._

Watson sighs and sits against a post. Sherlock studies the safe once more.

Sherlock eventually turns around and finds Watson asleep. She crouches near her, cheek in her hand, and watches her for a few moments. Sherlock reaches out and shakes her awake. Watson gasps.

"She thinks she's a clever one, doesn't she," Sherlock asks as Watson gets her bearings. 

"Who's 'she,'" Watson questions, rubbing her eyes.

"Her," Sherlock thumbs over her shoulder.

"What time is it," Watson asks. _Haven't the foggiest._ Watson checks her watch.

"She generates an ocean of pure randomness, hoping that you'll drown. But I can see the horizon line. I can tread water." She _knows_ they attacked the RNG. It's all that's left of her theories. Once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains- however improbable- must be the truth. Even though it _seems_ to be working, there must have been something fed into it so the robbers could predict the pattern. She's sure of it. 

"Stop!" Sherlock does. "It's 2:00 in the morning," Watson says slowly. Sherlock just looks at her. _So?_ "You've been down here what, 17 hours?"

"So?"

"_So,_ I'm supposed to meet my mother for brunch, not spend the night in a bank vault."

"Go, then."

"I'm not leaving you alone down here." Sherlock's surprised. Why would Watson want to stay? She's always been alone. "In A.A., they'd say you were on a dry drunk." Sherlock has never heard the term. "You're indulging in all the obsessions of addiction without actually using drugs. So, are you going to admit that you can't think your way past that vault door or am I going to have to smash the fire alarm and get us both dragged out of here?" Sherlock considers her. She's serious. _Oh, Watson. How you've changed_, she thinks proudly. 

"You're absolutely right, Watson." Watson just looks at her, shocked. "I can sometimes disappear into the rabbit hole of my own psyche," she admits.

"Ok, good, then you're ready to go."

"Would you mind terribly if I tried just one more idea before we leave?" Watson groans. "It'll only take a minute."

"Fine," Watson relents.

Sherlock stands and considers the Leviathan. _You haven't bested me._ She smashes open the fire box with her elbow. 

"What are you doing?!" Sherlock takes the fire axe out. "Oh my God, put that down."

Sherlock uses it to smash the keypad. She gazes at it proudly for a few seconds. "Before you say anything, I would like to remind you that I'm holding an axe," Sherlock remarks. She puts it back and walks out, Watson following her.

"Why did you do that," Watson demands.

"Like I said; one last idea."

"You already _knew_ that they didn't use a fire axe!"

"And now I know for sure."

"I can't believe you."

"We're going home, Watson," Sherlock says as they get on the subway. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

"What I _wanted_ is for you to not use a _fire axe_ to solve your problems!"

"And it didn't. And now I know better. So, we're going home, you're going to bed, and I shall ruminate some more."

Watson groans. They get to the brownstone and Watson goes up to her room. Sherlock goes to the study and sends an email to the NYPD crime lab requesting the pictures and the files to the original crew that broke into the vault. She doesn't expect to hear back until proper morning. She sits in her chair and faces where her wall of evidence usually is. _How did they attack the RNG? _ She thinks on that. _If I knew the code to get in and watched as it changed a few times, maybe I could see the pattern._ But Erlich seemed quite convinced that it was 'working perfectly'. Which means that they already examined it. But she hasn't. Gstaad, he said? That's- she thinks for a moment- 6 hours ahead. She checks her watch and smiles. She walks to her computer and sends another email, this one to Erlich requesting that he allow the owner to send her the code. She turns away but frowns when the computer pings. She reads the response, skimming it. _No?_ She reads the entire thing._Too much risk? The bloody thing's already been broken into! And he knows where I live! Although, it is flattering to know that he knows I could disappear whenever I want._ She sits in her chair again. She remains there until she gets the pictures from the lab, which she arranges on the wall. She gets to work.

"Did you give the people from Casterly Rock my phone number as your contact info," Watson asks.

"Well I didn't want them to call _me._"

"Well, they're wondering who took an axe to their vault. Apparently, the repair bill's going to be _huge_."

"Cost of doing business. They'll get over it when I figure this out." She looks at her wall. "We need to figure out _who_ broke into the safe; that's how we'll figure out the _how_. It wasn't an inside job, everyone at Casterly Rock who knew how to get in has given an alibi. And I can't see how the original thieves would have needed a fifth conspirator as Erlich suspects. Between them, they had every skill they would need to get in." Watson comes next to her and examines the wall. "Obvious what happened. One of the original team sold the recipe for breaching the Leviathan to an outside party."

"That's obvious," Watson asks. 

"When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains- however improbable- must be the truth."

"And what's impossible here is that you couldn't break into the Leviathan but someone else could," Watson faces her. Sherlock continues to scrutinize her wall. "In other words, you are the smartest person in the world." Watson walks behind Sherlock. "Waiting for you to chime in and say 'that's ridiculous.'"

"You'd think it'd be easy to get one of the four original team to admit they'd sold the secret on." She points to the picture of the men. "Carter Averill, the man who masterminded the heist, died in prison last year and the other three have yet to respond to my request for an interview." Watson's phone rings. She checks the I.D. and ignores the call. "You should answer that," Sherlock says. "Tell them it was a necessary part of my process."

"What are my keys doing here," Watson asks. Sherlock glances over, seeing her pick them up from her balance. 

"They weigh the right amount. Enjoy brunch with your mother. I hadn't realized you were still so eager to impress her." Watson shoots her a disgruntled look. "You're dressed like you're going to a job interview, not a meal with a loved one." Watson looks down at herself and rolls her eyes before walking away.

Sherlock peruses the files once more, this time taking them down and looking through them in her hands. She's just putting them in a new arrangement on the wall when her phone rings. She looks- Sing Sing. She smiles and answers. The robotic voice tells her who's calling and asks if she'll accept the charges. "Yes, I accept."

"Pencils should all be mechanical so that you don't have to sharpen them," Charles Briggs says. 

"I want to know how you got into the Leviathan. I'll make it worth your while."

A pause. "You know they record all phone calls here, right?"

"I work with the police, Mr. Briggs. Another one has been infiltrated. If you allow me to speak with you in person, I'll offer you something that will be extremely valuable to you." Briggs thinks. Sherlock is content to wait.

"You know, I thought you'd be a guy."

"I've heard that before."

"Fine. You can come." He hangs up. 

Sherlock calls Watson. 

They go to Sing Sing and sit down with Briggs. "The ocean hasn't been fully explored, there might be sea monsters down there."

"And Bigfoot might exist, somewhere deep in the forest," Watson replies.

"You said you wanted to know how we got into the Leviathan. And you think for some reason, even though I kept my mouth shut during the trial, I'm going to tell you." He has his arms folded across his chest. _Defensive._

"You did agree to see me, after I told you I'd make it worth your while. Which means you have a price." Briggs shrugs slightly. "You're one of the best lock-pickers in the world, and I collect expertise, Mr. Briggs; people to help me with my consultancy work on an as-needed basis. I think I could find a use for a mind as lively as yours."

"You want me to work for the cops," Briggs asks, voice flat. He's not entirely disinterested, no matter what facade he puts on.

"What I'm offering, Mr. Briggs, is an opportunity to use your brain." Briggs inhales softly. "An opportunity," she looks around the drab walls of the visiting area, "you probably won't see again for the rest of your natural life." Briggs thinks on that for a few moments, then nods slightly. "Excellent." Sherlock holds up her fingers as she talks. "How did you get into the Leviathan, and who did you sell your secret to?"

Briggs leans in, uncrossing his arms and instead folding his hands on the table. "I don't know exactly how we got in. We were specialized. I was responsible for getting past the outer door. Averill figured out the code, never told the rest of us how he did it." _Bollocks,_ Sherlock laments. "After he got sick, he told me someone got in touch with him." Sherlock pays close attention. "Averill said this guy wanted to know how he did it, and he was willing to pay. If you're saying that someone else broke into a Leviathan, my guess is Carter saw an opportunity to get some money for his family before he died, told the guy his secret." _Nobility,_ Sherlock mentally scoffs.

"And does this 'guy' have a name," Watson asks.

"I only know an alias." Briggs sits back and puts his hands at his side on the bench. "Even if you never find this guy- which you won't- is that enough to land me this gig?" Sherlock shares a look with Watson. Watson looks curious, so Sherlock looks back at Briggs and inclines her head. Briggs smirks. "The guy Averill said got in touch with him, everyone just calls him..._Le Chevalier_." His French accent is decent, far better than most English speakers.

"_Le Chevalier_," Sherlock questions.

"Who is he," Watson asks.

"A thief," Sherlock explains. "Whose spoils are, allegedly, an original copy of Shakespeare's first folio, a rather extensive collection of ancient Greek coins, Van Gogh's _Pieta_, and others of their ilk."

"So you do know him," Briggs nods, smiling.

"What does he look like?"

"No one knows," Briggs answers. "Hey, I said you wouldn't find the guy," he shrugs at Watson's disbelieving look. 

"I wouldn't be so sure," Sherlock says. "You're forgetting one thing; I have never looked for him." Sherlock stands and she and Watson walk away. 

"I'll be waiting for your call," Briggs yells after them.

"You know he's sending us on a snipe hunt," Watson says once they're out of the prison.

"How would you know?"

"The guy sounds like a legend, not a person."

"Some people think so."

"And yet you're going to believe Briggs?" It seems as though Watson has taken up her habit of calling people by their last name, though perhaps it is out of the fact that Briggs is a convicted felon. 

"Like I said in there, Watson; I have never gone looking for _Le Chevalier_."

They return to the precinct. "Holmes," Gregson calls.

"Captain," Sherlock stops. 

"What's up?"

"I spoke with one of the original members of the team that broke into the Leviathan the first time back in 2010. He said that Carter Averill, before he died, spoke with someone that wanted to buy the secret."

"Got a name?"

"Of sorts. _Le Chevalier_."

"I take it you know what that means."

"The Knight." Gregson just looks at her, unamused at her joke. "He's a thief of the highest caliber."

"He stole Shakespeare's first folio," Watson says. "Among other things. No one has ever even seen the guy."

"And now, we shall go and find _Le Chevalier_." Gregson smiles and Sherlock's heart feels like it does a strange flip. 

"Have fun."

"God, how do you work down here," Watson complains. "It's so cramped. And I feel like I'm in prison," she gestures to the walls of the cage.

"No one bothers me down here." She looks at all the files from _Le Chevalier's_ five robberies.

"You know, if this guy exists, he's got good taste," Watson remarks, looking at Van Gogh's _Pieta._

"Yes, Van Gogh is one of my favorites," Sherlock smiles, looking at the masterpiece.

"Mine too." Watson is surprised. 

Sherlock pulls the files for the Greek coins closer and frowns when she sees the pictures. She taps her finger on one and searches for another picture of _Pieta_ she recalls of two men shaking hands in front of it. 

"Who's that," Watson asks.

"Peter Kent. Head of the Kent Philanthropic Trust and leader of the fundraising drive that led to the acquisition of _Pieta._"

"Ok," Watson draws out. "Why are we looking at a picture of him?"

"Look at his cufflinks. They're fashioned from silver tetradrachms. Ancient Greek coins." Sherlock hands over her phone, magnifying attachment already set up. Watson looks at the screen. "Now look at the coins _Le Chevalier_ stole." Watson looks back and forth. 

"My God, they're the same."

"That's _Le Chevalier,_" Sherlock gestures. "Now, _Le Chevalier_ may be the stuff of legends," she says, retrieving her phone and typing. "But Peter Kent is listed in the phone book."

They go to the Kent home. 

"I tell you what. I won't be using Charles Briggs as a consultant any time soon," Sherlock fumes up the stairs of the subway.

"I cannot believe I got on the subway with a Chopard watch," Watson says. "There are 200 carats of diamonds on this thing," she hisses. "I don't even want to know how much it costs."

"25 million." Watson gasps softly. "_Pieta_ almost twice that, if recent auctions are anything to go by," she taps the tube under her arm. She looks at Watson, who's glaring. "Got away with it, didn't we? Neither one of us wanted to put a stroke victim in jail, and Peter Kent's son didn't want anyone to know what his father did in his spare time. No, this was the best outcome for everyone."

"I'd like to hear you explain that in court. 'Your Honor, we abetted in grand larceny.'" Sherlock catches Watson's arm, turning her around. 

"Court. Yes. Well done, Watson."

"What?"

"There was a trial," Sherlock smiles. "When the first heist team was arrested, three of them took plea bargains. But one of them, Carter Averill, tried his luck at trial." Watson still looks blank. "All the details of the original crime, they were submitted as evidence! Watson, we need to find out everyone who took part in that trial." Watson's expression changes to one of disbelief. "What, why are you looking at me like that?"

"Because I think the only reason that you're clinging to this copycat theory is because you couldn't figure it out."

"I'm playing the probabilities. That's what I always do." Sherlock keeps walking towards the precinct and Watson falls into step at her side.

They go directly to Gregson's office, and Watson sets the box down on his desk. "What's in there, files," he asks, opening the lid and looking inside. He stills and looks up. "You're kidding."

"No," Sherlock shakes her head. "Best not to ask any questions." 

Gregson looks at Watson. "It really is."

"Some priceless artifacts come into your possession- the ones that just _happen_ to have been the ones this _Chevalier-" mm. Must work on that accent _"-guy stole, and the fewer questions I ask, the better," Gregson says, taking the items out one at a time and examining them before laying them out on his desk.

"And the culture will be grateful for these items' return," Sherlock says brightly.

Gregson laughs lightly. "I tell ya, Sherlock. You make my life interesting." Sherlock's heart stutters in her chest and her mouth goes dry. "What about that," he indicates the tube under her arm.

"A trifle I picked up for the brownstone," she lies. "Goodnight, Captain."

"Night, Holmes. Joan."

Watson has the good sense to wait until they're home to put up a fuss. "I'm not ok with this," she says as Sherlock lovingly hangs _Pieta_ up. 

"I thought you said Van Gogh was one of your favorites."

"You stole a 50 million dollar painting!"

"We're just borrowing it, Watson. If we're going to read court transcripts, we might as well do it in the company of a masterpiece."

Sherlock sits on the floor and starts reading. Watson huffs. Watson's phone rings and she retrieves it from where Sherlock had moved it. "Hi, Oren," she greets her brother. "I miss you too, but didn't Mom tell you I'm on a job?" Pause. "From me?" Another pause, where she shoots a disapproving look at Sherlock. "My client? No, no, I..." She sighs. "I'll be there," she smiles. "Love you. Bye." She hangs up and stalks over to her. "I put a lock code on here to prevent you from sending out texts," she brandishes the device.

"I was hired to break into the Leviathan," Sherlock says. "Did you really think I wouldn't be able to guess your passcode?"

"You're not meeting my family."

"Really? I'm not sure I can be without your company for two hours tomorrow night. Feeling a little relapse-y." Joan gasps. 

"You're only using that word because you know I can't leave you alone if you say 'relapse!' You just want to meet my family so you can put them under a microscope."

"Nonsense," Sherlock proclaims. "You search your conscience, Watson. If you feel comfortable going out to dinner while I dream of chasing the dragon, then so be it." Watson doesn't so much as roll her eyes as roll her entire body. "I have a transcript to read." She sits on the couch with it. Eventually, Watson joins her.

Several hours after Watson went to bed, Sherlock smiles. "Got you."

Sherlock wakes Watson up gently. "Good morning! Coffee, yogurt, assorted fruits," she says, putting the tray down and stepping back.

"Thanks," Watson says into her pillow.

"Seven minutes for you to eat and drink, twenty-three to shower and dress, should get us to the property clerk's office just when it opens."

"Why are we going to the property clerk's office," Watson asks, rolling over. Sherlock notices the 'we.'

"That's where they keep Exhibit C from Carter Averill's trial. I want to have a look at it."

"Why?"

"The jury looked at it three separate times during the course of their deliberations."

"Isn't that the jury's job, to examine the evidence," Watson asks, starting to eat.

"This is but a mere paper upon which was scrawled the coffee orders of the four men who robbed the Leviathan. The prosecution used it to show that the men were working together. Hardly a thing that needs to be looked at more than once, hmm?" Sherlock leaves Watson's room without waiting for an answer.

Sherlock shows Watson the paper. "What is it," Sherlock asks her.

"A coffee order. Three of them ordered soy. I'm surprised they were so health-conscious." Sherlock flips the bag down to show the other side. "That looks like what your printer spits out to make sure it's working."

"It looks like sheer nonsense," Sherlock nods. "That's what it's _supposed_ to look like. It's actually a programming language called 'malbolge.' The language's creator named it after the ninth circle of Hell in Dante's _Inferno_. Few people can even identify malbolge when they see it. Fewer still can use it to write software. I first learned about the language through one of my Irregulars back in London. We should get a translation from her soon."

"You think someone on the jury recognized it?"

"Well, it's much more interesting than the coffee order, wouldn't you agree?" She flicks through the jurors' paperwork. "Here we are. Justin Guthrie. Unemployed at the time of the trial but listed his previous occupation as a software engineer," Sherlock smiles and looks up.

"Same as Carter Averill," Watson realizes.

"Shall we see if he's familiar with malbolge?"

"What if Guthrie says that he doesn't know what you're talking about," Watson asks as they approach Guthrie's apartment building.

"I suppose we could see if he has any loose diamonds laying about." Her phone pings, and she checks it. "Ha! I was right," Sherlock says, stopping Watson. "They attacked the random number generator." Watson looks at the equation Harrison sent her.

"That does not say 'they attacked the random number generator,'" Watson says.

"The algorithm. It's the answer. It's the malbolge decoded."

"Ok."

"It's how they got in." Watson just raises her arms and lets them drop. "Ok. The vault is designed to spit out numbers randomly, yes?"

"That's generally what a random number generator does."

"Plug this in, and instead of getting random numbers, it starts spitting out escalating digits of pi every two minutes." Watson's face shows her dawning realization. "That way, the thieves _could_ predict the pattern."

"How did Casterly Rock not realize what happened? I thought they said that the number generator was working fine."

"Pi is infinite and non-repeating. Take a ten-digit sample, it still looks like the software is functioning. And no one would ever think of the humble pi."

"You did not just make a pun."

They arrive at Guthrie's apartment building. "Officer, we need to get into this building," Sherlock says to the uni guarding the door.

"Sorry, lady, no can do," the officer says. "This is an active investigation."

"We work with the NYPD. Call the 11th precinct, ask to speak with Captain Gregson. All we want is to talk to Justin Guthrie."

"Wait. You said Guthrie?"

"Yes."

"He's the one we're here for. You might want to talk with one of the detectives," he points behind him. Sherlock and Watson look, finding a man impaled on the barbed wire fence. "Mr. Guthrie jumped out the window of his apartment a little while ago."

Sherlock finds a detective. "Excuse me," she says, and the man turns to them. "I need to see Guthrie's apartment."

"Listen, ma'am, this is an active investigation-"

"I consult for the NYPD, Detective. If you call Captain Gregson at the 11th, he'll vouch for myself and Ms. Watson. My name is Sherlock Holmes."

They wait for them to get cleared. "Maybe he couldn't live with himself," Watson offers as she looks up. 

"With at least a quarter of 40 million dollars waiting for him? I don't think so. I know the expression is 'money doesn't buy happiness,' but at least 10 million dollars is a nice number to start testing, wouldn't you think?"

"Holmes. You're clear. Go up, don't touch anything." Sherlock takes gloves from her pocket and puts them on.

"You just carry those around with you," Watson asks as they walk.

"All investigators should. Uh, spare set of gloves for my associate," she asks the nearest CSU worker, who hands Watson a pair. Sherlock looks around and sees a clue. She smiles down at it.

"What?" Watson arrives next to her. 

"Justin Guthrie didn't kill himself. He was murdered." She spies blood on the wall close to the floor. She crouches and Watson follows suit. "See?"

"The kitchen is right there, Sherlock," Watson points out.

"I doubt he encountered a high-force event on his own."

"Come again?"

Sherlock gestures to her nose. 

"You think he got punched in the nose?"

"You assume it's Guthrie's blood."

"You think _someone_ got punched in the nose," Watson corrects herself.

"Yes." She stands, goes to the piano, and starts to play. She gets odd looks from the CSU workers and other police associates, but they enjoy the music. "Call the Captain," Sherlock tells Watson. "Tell him what we've found."

"I don't know what we've found."

"Then tell him what I told you." Watson sighs and makes the call.

Gregson arrives with Bell in tow. They approach Sherlock at the piano. Sherlock looks up when she hears Gregson's familiar gait and he arrives next to her, watching her fingers. "What is it? I know you didn't call me here to give me a recital." Sherlock stops playing.

"This is a murder. Justin Guthrie planned, or helped plan, the robbery of the Leviathan at the Svalbard Diamond Exchange."

Gregson and Bell look at Watson. "It's a long story."

"Precinct detective said this is a suicide," Gregson says. "Why do you think that it's murder and he's a criminal mastermind behind a 40 million dollar heist?"

"Obviously, a violent altercation took place." The policemen look around the apartment- it's pristine. Or seems to be so. She stands and gestures to the blood she found. "Blood evidence. Ms. Watson and I found it and examined it closely. Blood spatter indicates that it was a high-force event."

Gregson looks at Watson. "She's saying that someone got hit in the nose."

Gregson crouches. "Ok. It's worth looking into," he nods. He stands smoothly. _Good knees for his age._ "I still don't understand how it connects to the robbery."

"Justin Guthrie was on the jury at the trial of Carter Averill, mastermind of the original Leviathan heist. They were both software engineers. Guthrie recognized and decoded a string of malbolge that was the key to cracking that particular safe again."

"I lost you," Gregson admits. 

Sherlock smiles and inclines her head. "Come." They follow her to a table where there are three glass votives, filled with decorative rocks. "See these rocks?"

"Yeah. What about 'em," Gregson asks.

"These two have three layers," she points. "This one only has two. But the residue on the glass indicates that it was full until just recently."

"Ok," Bell says. "I'll bite. So what?"

"Many of the stones stolen from the diamond exchange happened to be uncut diamonds. Uncut diamonds, to the untrained eye, can look exactly like decorative rocks. I believe that whoever killed Guthrie relieved him of his share of the profits."

"A good story. How ya gonna prove it," Gregson asks.

"Glad you asked." Sherlock pours some of the rocks from the two-layer votive out and spreads them on the table. "If someone was in a hurry, they might have left some behind." She picks up a dirty, colorless stone and balances it in her palm. Gregson and Bell lean in.

"You're telling me that that's-" Bell starts.

"An uncut fucking diamond," Gregson says. "I need everyone in here!" The men leave.

"Looks like we have a murder on our hands," Watson says. Sherlock doesn't answer, instead scrutinizing the diamond. "It's almost 6, we should start getting ready."

"Oh, right. Dinner with your family. Well, as you said, this is now a murder investigation. You'll understand if I can't make it."

Watson hides her relief well. "Absolutely." She leaves. Sherlock puts the diamond on the counter and leaves right for the restaurant. 

"Bees shouldn't be feared, they should be loved. Without them, we wouldn't have 70% of the crops that feed the vast majority of the world," Sherlock greets.

"But people think of them as bugs," Mrs. Watson replies. Sherlock extends her hand. 

"Sherlock Holmes. Your daughter's current client. How do you do?"

"Pleasure," Mrs. Watson smiles, taking it. Mary Watson doesn't think highly of her, but manners above all else.

"Yellow flowers should all be called sunflowers," Oren greets.

"By that logic, all green flowers should be called grass."

"Oren. I'm Joan's brother. This is my soulmate and girlfriend, Gabrielle."

"Horsepower varies from horse to horse," the woman greets.

"So one horse could be considered half a horsepower."

"It's so nice to meet you!"

"You as well, Gabrielle." They all sit at the table.

"Where's Joan," Mrs. Watson asks.

"Oh, she took the car. I thought it'd be faster to take the subway. Guess I was right." Polite laughter. "She'll be here shortly, I assure you."

"So. Sherlock, is it," Oren starts. "I can understand having an unusual name."

"Oren," Mrs. Watson warns.

"Kidding, mom."

"I've grown to embrace it, as no doubt have you, Oren." Mrs. Watson smiles softly. "So, Joan has told me so little about you all. What do you do, Oren?"

"I work with stock brokers. What about you?"

"I consult for the NYPD."

"What do you mean, consult," Oren asks.

"Well, when they have particularly difficult cases, they call me and I provide them with assistance."

"Sounds exciting," Gabrielle smiles. "How'd you get into that?"

"I've always had a certain proficiency for reading people. As such, I found a practical use for it. Your sister helps me a great deal."

"Joan? No," Oren shakes his head.

"It's true. Let me tell you about one of the first cases we worked together." The others perk up in interest- even Mrs. Watson. Everyone loves a good detective story. "I was summoned by Canon Ebersole. Their COO had failed to show up to work the day before and the police had recommended me because their hands were tied."

"You worked for Canon Ebersole," Oren asks, shocked.

"For a time. Now, I found the man in his apartment, having apparently overdosed on heroin."

"Apparently," Mrs. Watson asks.

"I thought that the apartment was too clean and tidy to be the home of an addict. I would know. So, I prompted the police to test the salad he had been eating for heroin, and lo and behold that's what they found."

"Amazing," Gabrielle gushes. "What happened next?"

"I delved into the background of the company and found a disturbing pattern. Employees that seemed to be proficient in whatever they died of kept cropping up- five in all. So, I made a timeline- anyone who was in those cities during those years would be a suspect. As it turns out, only one such person fit that bill." Sherlock pauses, and the others are literally holding their breath. "The CIO."

"Oh my God," Gabrielle says. "He was a murderer?"

"That's what I assumed. But I was incorrect because he had a solid alibi. I then noticed on a medical form the name of his secretary. I went alone to accuse her, which was admittedly foolhardy on my part. She subdued me and knocked me out."

"Oh, no," Gabrielle gasps.

"Meanwhile, your sister was trying to get in touch with me. The secretary saw all the missed calls and texts and decided to text back. See, I have a very unique way of texting. Your sister astutely noticed that it didn't sound like me and alerted the authorities. They saved me just when the secretary was about to shoot me."

"Joan did that," Mrs. Watson asks.

"Indeed she did."

"You said that you were good at reading people. What did you mean," Gabrielle asks.

"Everyone carries their past and present on them at all times. For example," Sherlock says. "You, Gabrielle, have recently changed watches. Your old one's strap broke and you changed it for the one you're wearing now. But you love the old one so you're looking to get it fixed. I know an excellent jeweler, if you're interested."

She and Oren look at each other. "How did you know," Gabrielle asks.

"There's an area of skin on your wrist that's smoother than the rest. The back of a watch face rubbing against the skin will do that. Yet the links on that watch are shiny and new- you hardly ever wear it. I suppose only on special occasions? You were on the phone with a jeweler when I walked in, you stepped aside to take the call."

"That's incredible."

"So, Sherlock. Is there such a thing as a perfect crime," Oren asks.

Sherlock smiles. "You know, I've wondered the same thing. If you were to kill someone, Oren, how would you do it?"

"Well, I guess I would be like a vigilante and only kill murderers," he starts. "Kill them in their own homes rather than in mine. Wear a whole body suit."

"Murder weapon?"

"Plastic bag. Suffocation."

"See, that's an excellent plan. It would fool most police officers." Oren straightens with pride. "But not me. But if you, for example, instead of using a plastic bag, you used a bucket of purified water and then evaporated the water, then I'd never be able to prove you were a murderer." The table laughs. Sherlock looks over her shoulder. "Joan, you're here. Excellent." Sherlock stands and pulls Watson's chair out for her. 

"This is Gabrielle, your brother's girlfriend and hopefully soon, fiancée," Sherlock jokes, and the table laughs.

"Habits should be built one at a time," Watson greets.

"People are too impatient for that."

"It's so nice to finally meet you," Watson smiles, shaking her hand.

"You, too! Oren talks about you all the time."

Watson leans closer to Sherlock. "What happened to 'this is a murder investigation,'" she asks.

"Presently in a bit of a lull. Awaiting DNA tests on the blood. I saw a chance to spend some time with your family and I took it."

"Joan," Oren says. "Is it true that you helped prove the CIO of Canon Ebersole had a secretary that killed five people?"

"Uh, not really," Watson shakes her head. "I only helped out a little."

"She was instrumental in solving that case," Sherlock nods. 

"And you saved Sherlock's life," Oren prods.

"Well," Watson trails off. "Kind of."

"Joan's quite a promising detective in her own right," Sherlock says. She sees Watson straighten next to her.

"I'm not a detective," Watson says, contradicting her body language. "I'm just along for the ride for a while."

"Oh, you're being modest," Sherlock tells her. Which she is. "That's not the only case she helped me solve." It wasn't. 

Mrs. Watson looks at her daughter, surprised and proud. 

"Hard to picture what she does, isn't it," Sherlock asks. "'Sober companion.' I had no idea what it meant, and I'm a recovering addict." Watson nearly coughs up her water, but the rest of the table laughs. "She practices quite a unique specialty, your daughter," she directs to Mrs. Watson with a soft smile. "She rebuilds lives from the ground up. You can measure her success in careers restored. In my case, criminals caught and lives saved."

"Interesting," Mrs. Watson says. "I've never thought of it that way."

"You've raised a humble daughter, Mrs. Watson. She would never dream of presenting her job in such a way." The rest of the table smiles. "Shall we order," she asks, and they all open their menus. "I hear the rabbit is a-ma-zing."

In the cab home, Sherlock works, full of rabbit. It had indeed been delicious. Cooked to perfection. "I know you're going to blow this off, but I'm going to say it anyway. Thank you," Watson says. Sherlock pauses. "I've never been able to make my family understand what I do."

"Yes, well," Sherlock says. "Your family- while lovely- is at their core, conventional. So I just phrased things in a way that they'd understand. And I meant very little of what I said."

"There's the blowing off part." Watson pauses. "And you know, I've been spending too much time with you. You lied."

"As I said, I meant very little."

"There it is again." Sherlock looks at her. "You do think I help on cases. And I just want you to know that I am enjoying our time together."

"Well of course you are. While you may put on conventional airs, I know that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the humdrum routine of ordinary life." Sherlock looks at Guthrie's phone and scoffs.

"What?"

"I've been trying to find out who Justin Guthrie may have collaborated with. I've been sifting through his phone in my downtime."

"That's his phone?! Isn't that evidence?"

"The police would want it in my hands," Sherlock says, continuing to work. "He stored three numbers in his notes section. Each with only a first name next to it; Jeremy, Amelie, Alex. These are probably the names of three people with whom he served on the jury."

"So, they kept in touch," Watson says with a minuscule shrug. 

"Have you served jury service," Sherlock asks, looking at her. Watson nods. "Did you have _any_ desire to see those people again when it was over?"

Watson looks away, conceding the point.

When they get home, Sherlock goes to her evidence wall. Watson wishes her a good night and goes to bed. Sherlock ponders the wall. 

_Justin Guthrie was a software engineer_, she thinks. _So his job was to decode the malbolge and attack the random number generator. Now all he'd need is a locksmith, an electrical engineer, and an inside man._ She goes to the packet containing the jurors. She examines each one, finding names and professions matching the ones Guthrie had written down- Alex Wilson, Jeremy Lopez, Amelie Widomski. She puzzles over Amelie the longest. She must have been the inside woman, but how? She can't find her name in any of the files of the Svalbard Diamond exchange, nor in Casterly Rock when she expands her search. Her husband wasn't in any of them either. _Husband_. She grins and looks up Amelie Widomski's maiden name on any paperwork she can find. _Batonvert_. She laughs quietly and moves into her library, where there's a clean wall. She puts up the mug shots of the original team and lies down on her settee. She picks up the remote for her stereo and blasts opera music, both to bring Watson down and to celebrate.

Watson soon comes down, livid. She walks to the stereo and turns the music down. "It's nearly finished, don't turn it down. I'm basking." Sherlock uses the remote to increase the volume. Watson shuts it off entirely. 

"It's 3:00! Can't you bask in the morning?"

"It's this case, Watson. It renews one's faith in the profession. It's a life of boundless surprises, detective work," Sherlock says, unhooking her legs from the arm of her settee and sitting up before she hops to her feet.

"Do I have to find you a drug test?" Sherlock knows that Watson is joking. Sherlock walks past her to the wall. 

"These are the four men who broke into the Leviathan in 2010. We've already met Charles Briggs, lockpick and locksmith extraordinaire. This is Vance Paulson," she continues, and Watson sits down to listen. Sherlock fights a smile, even though Watson looks more tired than interested. But she will be the latter soon. "He was the inside man. The late Carter Averill, organizer of the crime; genius. He mastered everything from computer coding to surveillance software. Finally, David Retts. PhD in electrical engineering."

"Nothing about this is making me want to bask."

"I haven't got to the good bit yet." Sherlock grins and moves to the table. She holds up a photo to Watson. "We already know that Justin Guthrie's programming skills allowed him to perform much the same function as Carter Averill. Now, let's meet some of his fellow jurors." She hangs it under Averill's picture. She picks up another photo. "Alex Wilson worked as an electrical engineer before his employer forced early retirement on him." He goes under Retts. Watson starts to become more alert. "Jeremy Lopez, son of a locksmith. He worked his way through school by plying his father's trade."

"You're saying that Guthrie committed this robbery with other members of the jury?"

Sherlock nods. "Probably started as a joke. Jurors spend a lot of time together, there's lots of idle chitchat. They noted that between the three of them, they had the same skills as the thieves they were trying. Once Guthrie spotted the malbolge, it turned serious. They realized they had been handed the recipe for making millions of dollars."

"So, who was the inside man?

"Inside woman, as it turns out. This is Amelie Widomski, a homemaker from Roosevelt Island. Couldn't make any sense of it until I thought of looking for her maiden name on paperwork. Amelie Widomski was born Amelie Batonvert."

"Green stick," Watson says, wondrous. 

"The manager of the Svalbard Diamond Exchange is her brother. Whether he was in on it or she just used the family connection to gain access during working hours, I haven't ascertained yet. These are the four people who robbed the Svalbard Diamond Exchange two days ago. And one of them is killing the others to keep the proceeds."

Watson smiles softly. "Good job, Sherlock."

Sherlock basks once more, this time in the praise. 

"But we should get some more sleep before we go to Gregson in the morning."

"Good night, Watson. Pleasant dreams," Sherlock wishes. Watson stands and goes back upstairs. Sherlock looks proudly at her board for a few moments and goes to get changed out of the previous day's clothes.

Sherlock and Watson go into Gregson's office the next morning and Sherlock tells him her theory. He listens intently. "You really think that four members of the jury just decided to become criminals?"

"Well, they knew it had been done once before, and how they were caught," Sherlock points out. "And millions of dollars is quite a tantalizing prize."

Gregson nods, thoughtful. "Alright. I'll call in the jurors."

Sherlock nods and she and Watson walk out. 

"Let's see if you're right," Watson says. 

"Ten jurors, two alternates," Gregson says, looking in the conference room from outside with the women. "Figured I'd cover all my bases. The only surviving juror we couldn't find was Alex Wilson. He's on your list, right?" Sherlock nods. "Assuming you're right, he's in the wind. Seems like he could be our guy."

"A distinct possibility," Sherlock nods. "But I believe that our killer is standing in that room." Watson and Gregson look at her. "That man right there, Jeremy Lopez, you can see from here that his face is injured." The others turn back to the conference room.

"You think Justin Guthrie did that to him," Watson asks.

"Should be easy enough to find out," Gregson says. "Ready?"

"Whenever you are, Captain." Gregson gestures and Sherlock leads the way, trailed by Gregson and some detectives with sterile swabs. "Ladies and gentlemen," she starts. "I'd like to first thank you all for performing your civic duty. The justice system called, the twelve of you answered. Unfortunately, it seems as though four of your number have become criminals themselves, and one of those four is now a murderer." The jurors start to murmur amongst themselves. "Shocking, I know. But we have obtained a sample of the killer's blood. Now it's a simple case of comparing your DNA to that sample, and we'll have our killer." She looks at Gregson, who nods. 

"Ok. You can start." The detectives start handing out the swabs. 

"Please, bear in mind that we cannot force you to give us a sample. But you've already demonstrated your civic mindedness by serving as jurors, and I'm sure that the innocent amongst you will relish the chance to help catch a murderer. If, however, you did murder Justin Guthrie, you certainly should not give us a sample. That would be folly." Gregson covers his mouth, and Sherlock knows he's hiding a smile. Sherlock keeps a close eye on Lopez. He's the only one who doesn't swab his mouth. "Everything alright, Mr. Lopez?"

"Fine, fine," the man says, and swabs his mouth. Sherlock shoots a surprised look at the Captain.

"Alright, everyone, you can go now," Gregson says, crossing over to her and gently nudging her out of the path of the door. "Thank you very much for your time." Lopez is the first one out the door and Sherlock watches him. When every juror is out, Gregson turns to Sherlock. "We'll keep some people on Lopez and Amelie Widomski, make sure they don't try to flee. Maybe he gave us that sample because he knew if he didn't, we'd know it was him." Sherlock scoffs. "I know, he seemed pretty confident," Gregson says, not offended in the least. That's why Sherlock enjoys his company so much. "Why would a killer just hand off his DNA like that?"

"I don't believe he would," Sherlock admits.

"Captain," Bell says, coming into the room. "We just heard from an officer in Irvington, New Jersey. Guy saw our BOLO on Alex Wilson. This cop swears he saw Wilson a couple of days ago, gave us an address."

"We need to find him," Sherlock says. "I may have been wrong about Jeremy Lopez, and I doubt Amelie Widomski could throw a grown man out a window. So if Lopez is not our man, Wilson must be."

Sherlock gets in Bell's car, sitting in the front passenger seat while Watson sits behind her.

"Why was his face injured, then," Sherlock wonders.

"People hurt themselves all the time," Bell says. "Doesn't mean you were wrong about him being a thief. I like your theory," he admits. "It makes sense. Crazy, but it makes sense."

Sherlock looks out the window.

"Thank you," Watson says, poking the back of Sherlock's head.

"Yes, thank you Detective."

They arrive at the address in Irvington that the New Jersey police officer provided. Marcus knocks on the door. Sherlock and Watson shoo away flies, and Sherlock identifies the species. She wanders around to the pile of trash and examines it. "Detective," she calls, and Bell looks over. "I'm concerned there's no need to look for Mr. Wilson inside." When she gets curious looks, she elaborates. "Not with this many coffin flies around."

"Coffin flies," Bell asks, coming down the stairs to meet her. 

"Small, humpbacked members of the Phoridae family. They feed on decaying corpses. And they're congregating on this cardboard." She bends to move it, but Bell stops her. He removes it himself. He uncovers Alex Wilson.

"Looks like he's been dead at least two days," Bell says.

"Which means he didn't kill Justin Guthrie yesterday." Sherlock scowls. "Then why did Lopez volunteer his DNA?"

"Look, the results haven't come back yet," Bell tries to placate her. "Maybe it'll match."

"But he's not a stupid man, that much is obvious. He must know what bloody DNA is." Bell shrugs and starts walking back to his car. 

"Marcus is right," Watson says as Sherlock climbs the stairs to meet her on the sidewalk. "Maybe he did it to throw us off, or he thought we were bluffing."

The ride back to the precinct is silent. They run into Gregson just as they're entering the bullpen. 

"Oh good. You're back," he greets, putting his hand on Sherlock's back and turning her back around. Sherlock eyes him- he's wearing an NYPD windbreaker. She's never seen him in one before. It suits him. "We just got the preliminary DNA results back from Justin Guthrie's apartment. It doesn't match Jeremy Lopez, it doesn't match Alex Wilson."

"Who does it match," Watson questions. Sherlock would like to know that as well.

"It belongs to an Army chaplain by the name of Audrey Higuerra." He hands a photo first to Bell and then another to Sherlock. She shares hers with Watson. 

"What's her connection to the jury," Sherlock asks him.

"As far as we know, she doesn't have one." Sherlock is shocked; her theory. It had been so tidy and beautiful in its simplicity. A little strange, yes, but such is the nature of the human condition.

"But-"

"Sherlock, you can ask her yourself when we go get her," Gregson assures her, and they get back in a car, this time Gregson's. Bell rides in the passenger seat and she and Watson in back.

Sherlock looks out the window, pondering. _Where did I go wrong? I was wrong about Lopez, what else was I wrong about? Everything else is adding up._

"Sherlock, I can hear your brain working from here," Gregson says, and Sherlock turns her head to look at him from her position behind Bell. They lock eyes in the rearview mirror. "You can ask her all the questions you want. I promise."

Sherlock nods. "But it was so neat."

"It was. But people aren't neat." Sherlock concedes that point. They arrive at Higuerra's house. "Stay back, you two." Sherlock and Watson wait across the street.

"She seems rather noble, this Audrey Higuerra, doesn't she," Sherlock muses. "I don't like her."

"Because she's a chaplain or because she has a 'Habitat for Humanity' sticker in her window?"

"Because she doesn't fit. It was a beautiful theory," she bemoans. "She doesn't have any connection to the jury or the trial."

"We found her blood at Justin Guthrie's apartment."

"And I don't know why that is."

"Someone once said 'when you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'"

"Sounds like a windbag."

"I don't know what that means, but you're probably right." The officers and Gregson burst into the home. Sherlock waits, stomach tightening, until Gregson re-appears and gestures for them.

"All clear," Gregson says when they get close. "You two can look around."

After a few moments, Watson speaks. "I don't see anything here that would indicate that she was a murderer."

"Quite the opposite," Sherlock says. This woman builds homes for the needy, consoles those who need it most. "If I could attribute three miracles to her, I would nominate her for sainthood."

"Looks like she's got the 'caring for the sick' part down." Sherlock hums. "She nursed her sister through cancer."

"So," Gregson says, coming into the room. "Not only is Audrey Higuerra not to be found in her own home, she's not even in the country." Sherlock looks at him, confused. "We just found her calendar. Turns out she was deployed to Kabul a couple'a weeks ago."

"That can't be right. We found a fresh sample of her blood in Guthrie's apartment yesterday," Sherlock replies. 

"Believe me, I know. Now I'm starting to wonder what the fuck is going on," Gregson admits.

"We're waiting on the Army to confirm that she's posted overseas, but look around," Bell shrugs. "Does it look like anyone's been here recently?"

Sherlock shakes her head, exhaling. She, like the Captain, would also like to know what's going on.

"Can I take back everything I said about 'eliminating the impossible,'" Watson asks, turning sharply around. Bell looks slightly confused. 

"Why would you want to do that," Sherlock asks.

"Because Audrey Higuerra's sister died of leukemia." The three just look at her.

"You're getting to be as bad as her," Bell says, indicating Sherlock. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"When she was gone, Audrey did everything she could to help people with the same disease." Sherlock is starting to catch on, but she needs to be sure. "I used to see these at the hospital all the time," Watson gestures at a small dish on a side table. "They give them to bone marrow donors." Gregson goes to Watson's side and looks in.

"Watson, I could kiss you," Sherlock says. She turns to Gregson. "Do you still have a police detail on Jeremy Lopez?"

"No, we called them off once the DNA didn't match. Why, what's going on?"

"You need to find him, bring him in immediately." Gregson makes the call and then turns to her once he's hung up. 

"You want to tell me why I did that?"

"Because I believe Jeremy Lopez once had a bone marrow transplant from Audrey Higuerra."

"Ok," Gregson draws out. 

"Bone marrow transplant recipients starts producing the DNA of their donors instead of their own. And bone marrow makes-"

"Red blood cells," Gregson realizes. "Let's go."

"Well done, Watson," Sherlock says in the car. 

"Yeah, good catch Joan," Gregson nods.

Jeremy Lopez is caught quickly outside his home and brought to the station. Gregson walks into the interview room, Sherlock right behind him.

"I don't know why I'm back here," Lopez says. "I already gave you people my DNA."

"Yeah, we had a little problem with that," Gregson says. "Something went wrong with one of the swabs. If it's not too much trouble, we'd like to get a blood sample. It's a cleaner read."

Sherlock is always impressed with the Captain when he steps into 'the box.' The last time she saw him interrogate someone was Wade Crewes.

"I've already been very helpful," Lopez says. "Generous, even. But honestly, I don't like needles. I don't see why I should-"

"There they are," Sherlock interrupts. "The evasions and rhetorical curlicues of a man with something to hide."

"I don't have anything to hide."

"You had leukemia, is that correct, Jeremy," she asks.

"Yeah. Five years ago. I'm better now." He raps his knuckles on the table.

"Good. And you're better because of a bone marrow transplant, right," Sherlock questions, unnecessarily. She already knows. She just wants to see Lopez try to talk himself out of this one. "Did you know that one of the side effects of a bone marrow transplant is that your body begins manufacturing cells that bear the DNA of your donor? And bone marrow manufactures blood." She watches Lopez's face- he's completely impassive. He's quite an excellent liar. "So you know that every recipient of a transplant walks around with DNA of their donor coursing through their veins. But the DNA in your hair, your skin, your _saliva_, that's entirely your own." Lopez spreads his hands in a 'so?' motion. "The blood we found in Justin Guthrie's apartment. It bears the DNA of Audrey Higuerra, but it came from your body," she points at him. "You knew that you could give us a saliva sample because the DNA wouldn't match."

"I cannot believe that you are dragging my illness into this," Lopez says, trying to guilt-trip her. Sherlock, however, believes that guilt is a useless emotion. 

"You stole 40 million dollars, and then you murdered two people."

Lopez sits back, the only sign of distress he's shown all interrogation. "I'm leaving." He stands. "Don't call me, don't expect me to cooperate." He moves towards the door. Where he's expecting to go, Sherlock isn't sure- the door locks from the outside. Also, an officer opens the door and comes in to block his way. 

"Oh, we don't need your cooperation," Gregson says. He puts the folder he had been carrying on the table and slowly flips it open. 

"What's that," Lopez asks, wary.

"Court order," Gregson says. "Compels you to give us a blood sample."

"We neglected to mention that we had this when we walked in here. Truthfully, we didn't want to deny ourselves the pleasure of watching you squirm." She smiles slightly at Gregson, who smiles back.

"You give us enough to arrest Amelie Widomski for her part in the robbery, and who knows? Maybe a parole board will see you before you're...dead." Lopez looks at Gregson and then back at the court order. He sighs and sits down.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything would be nice," Sherlock nods.

"It was all Justin's idea. It was a joke until he decoded that nonsense," Lopez waves his hand. "We were stuck until Amelie told us her brother ran the diamond exchange. We moved in. Amelie did recon inside, saw the security wasn't great. Alex took care of all the sensors. I picked the outside lock. Justin attacked the RNG." Gregson nods at the officer who had come inside when Lopez tried to leave.

"Legal pad, please," Sherlock says happily. The officer leaves and Lopez puts his head on his arms.

Sherlock answers the door when it rings, accepting a box containing three bottles of champagne from Erlich. "These are for you," he says. "You were finally able to tell us what the thieves did so we can safeguard against it in the future. Thank you."

"It was brilliant."

"It was. Good thing I hired an even more brilliant detective. Goodnight, Ms. Holmes. Enjoy the champagne."

"Goodnight, Mr. Erlich." Sherlock closes the door and walks back to the kitchen. "Such a shame," she says. "These bottles cost 500 dollars apiece. You'd think if they wanted to thank me with champagne, they'd go to the trouble of finding out if I drink first. Have a glass if you'd like. You're the one who figured out Audrey Higuerra was a bone marrow donor."

"Pretty sure that's not a good idea. Is the smell gonna bother you?"

Sherlock shakes her head. Watson moves the bottle to the sink. "Ah-ah," Sherlock protests. Watson looks at her. "I think we should go to the precinct."

"Why?"

"Well, I don't drink. And you won't while you're around me. But one could be for the Captain and his wife, one can be for Bell and the third," she trails off. "Can be for one of them to gift to someone else, I suppose," she muses. She turns to see Watson looking at her with a fond expression on her face. "What?"

"Nothing." Watson picks up the basket. "Let's go."

"I suppose being proven right is the best gift of all," Sherlock says as she follows Watson. "There was no genius who independently cracked the Leviathan. It was simply a matter of copying the original team."

"So that means you might still be the smartest person in the world."

"I would never suggest that."

"Really," Watson asks, looking at her with eyebrows raised. "I think that's the first time I've ever heard you say anything remotely modest."

"It's not modesty," Sherlock protests. "There's just no way to reliably test the theory."

They'd stopped in the library and are about to move again when the doorbell rings. "Triplets," Watson asks. Sherlock shakes her head and opens the door. "Mom," Watson questions, seeing the woman on the other side.

"I know I'm not supposed to come see you while you're out on a job, but you did give me your card the other night," she directs to Sherlock.

"Please, come in," Sherlock offers, standing aside. 

"Thank you." Mrs. Watson does.

"I'll leave you two to chat." Sherlock goes to the media room to drown them out. She turns on the news and sees something Watson will appreciate. She goes back downstairs. "So sorry to interrupt," she says. "I've just seen the most incredible thing on the news. I'm quite sure you'd want to see it."

"The police are puzzled by the sudden and unexplained return of Vincent Van Gogh's masterpiece, _Pieta_. It was delivered by courier to the head of the Aster Museum of Modern Art. The NYPD is speculating that the thief must have been suffering from a guilty conscience, but the exact motive for the return remains a mystery," the reporter says. Sherlock watches Watson smile. So does Mrs. Watson.

"I'll leave you two to your evening," Mrs. Watson says.

"One moment, if you'll indulge me," Sherlock says. She takes a champagne bottle and presents it. "For you and your family. To toast Oren's hopefully soon engagement."

"Thank you." She takes the bottle, nods to them both, and then leaves.

Watson drives them to the station.

"I thought you two left hours ago," Bell remarks.

"Yes, but we're back. Come into the Captain's office," Sherlock invites. 

Bell frowns but follows the women. The Captain is in there, performing his duty as a captain and wading through paperwork. He looks up and takes off his glasses when he hears them approach. "Sherlock," he greets, surprised. She turns and picks up a bottle, presenting it to him. Gregson takes it. "What's this for?'

"We don't drink," Sherlock says. "And it's rather good champagne, or it should be."

"If you don't drink, why'd you buy it," Bell asks.

"We didn't. I would never spend 1000 dollars on champagne." The men freeze and look at her.

"The bottles cost 500 dollars apiece," Bell demands.

"Sherlock, I can't-" Gregson starts, trying to hand the bottle back to her. Sherlock curls her fingers over his and gently presses it back. 

"You can and you shall, Captain. Consider it a token of my appreciation for all the good work you've done. And as a gift for you and your wife. Detective, you get one, as well," she turns away from her soulmate.

"Holmes-"

"Take it," Joan coaxes. Bell lifts it out.

"Might I propose a toast," Sherlock asks.

"Sherlock," Watson protests.

"I won't have a glass."

"But the smell-"

"Won't bother me a bit, as I said before."

"We don't have flutes," Bell points out. Sherlock goes to the break room, coming back with four mugs.

"You said you wouldn't have any," Watson scolds her.

"I'm having juice."

"It feels like sacrilege to do this to 500 dollar champagne," Bell mutters as he opens his bottle and pours in each of the three empty mugs. 

"To friends," Sherlock says, once everyone has their mug.

"To friends," the others chorus. They all drink.

"Oh my God," Bell says. "That's really good," he laughs. Gregson chuckles.

"Boy, is my wife gonna love you," he says, lifting the mug in Sherlock's direction. He drinks again. "Another toast?" They nod. "To the return of _Pieta_," he smiles, looking Sherlock in the eye. Sherlock feels her cheeks warm and Gregson chuckles. They drink.


	4. S1ep11 Dirty Laundry (Joan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The murder of a hotel manager unravels a complicated scheme involving espionage.

Joan hears the kettle whistling and walks into the kitchen, turning the flame down. She opens the cabinet and sighs at its emptiness. "Are we completely out of mugs," she calls to Sherlock.

"Check the sink," the woman shouts back.

She looks at it. "Some of these are ready for carbon dating," she mutters to herself. She crosses to the other cabinets and searches them. "Ugh. I guess we're out of clean bowls, too?"

"And plates and forks and cups," Sherlock walks in from the study.

"Where am I supposed to put my tea?" Sherlock extends the mug she had been eating spaghetti out of. "This isn't healthy, you know."

"A little marinara won't kill you, Watson."

She's no longer startled by Sherlock calling her by her last name. She doesn't think she's heard her call _any_ of her friends be their first name- only 'Detective,' 'Bell,' 'Captain,' or 'Gregson.'

"No, I mean the state of your kitchen," Joan says, looking around at it. Takeout containers abound- Chinese on the table, pizza boxes by the trash. Sherlock isn't one for cooking and frankly, neither is she.

"Don't you mean _our_ kitchen," Sherlock asks, looking for something.

"No, I mean yours. I'm only going to be here for ten more days, remember?"

"Nine days, twelve hours, forty-seven minutes, actually, but who's counting?"

Joan rolls her eyes. "I'm just saying, this is a problem," she gestures around the kitchen.

"_This_ is the sign of an active mind! Or, rather, two active minds. Lincoln, Einstein, among others." Joan sniffs the milk and groans. "Geniuses draw inspiration from chaos in their environs."

"Way to be the stereotype."

"Without Andrew Fleming's reluctance to wash petri dishes, we wouldn't have penicillin, would we," Sherlock continues, ignoring her.

"Yeah well, the mold that is growing on your actual dishes won't be as beneficial." She dangles an old tupperware that was in the fridge from her finger.

"Nine days, twelve hours, forty-_six_ minutes." Sherlock walks off with a stack of books.

Joan sighs and forgoes the tea. She hears Sherlock's phone ring. "Captain," she greets. Joan's heart starts to beat faster. _A case. Finally._ She starts to get ready, and she and Sherlock meet at the door. "Shall we," Sherlock asks.

They head to a hotel, and the Captain meets them at the doors. He walks them downstairs, debriefing them. "Victim's name is Teri Purcell, she's the general manager of this hotel. She worked late most nights in her office, that's where she was last seen." Joan is expected to be led to some back office, but they go to stairs that lead down, not up. They go down to the basement. "Has a husband and a daughter, we're about to head over to make the notification." That's the one part Joan dislikes- the look on peoples' faces when they learn that their loved one is not only gone, but had gone violently. It's a face she doesn't miss from her days as a surgeon. "Looks like she died from blunt-force trauma to the head, then got stuffed in the washing machine to wash away any physical evidence."

"The washer makes it hard to pinpoint time of death," Marcus continues. "Best guess right now is somewhere between 9:30 and midnight." Joan thinks that that's an awfully vague time.

"Machine was wiped down, so there're no fingerprints except the maid who found her," Gregson picks up. 

"Witnesses," Sherlock asks.

"No."

Sherlock looks at the table where the cops had put evidence they found on her, and Sherlock picks up a bag and shakes it. Joan can see the shell of a fountain pen in there. "And this?"

"Fountain pen," Marcus replies. "It was found in the washer with the body and some sheets. Now, could be the victim's, could be the killer's." Marcus takes the bag from her and hands it to a waiting CSU worker. "No way to tell because again, no prints."

"Broken in half, yet I see absolutely no ink anywhere," Sherlock notes.

"Yeah. I'm guessing because it was empty." Joan blinks at Marcus' derisive tone. What's with him today?

"I noticed that neither the security camera in the corridor nor the one by the exit are functioning; the red power lights were off?" Marcus opens his mouth, but the Captain is the one who answers. A sour expression crosses Marcus' face, so quickly that Joan would have missed it if she wasn't looking at him. 

"Yeah, hotel security said that they've been inactive for months. They keep fixing them, they keep going on the fritz."

"Which means the killer could come and go without fear of being monitored," Sherlock nods. "Suggests they were familiar with the environment." She walks to the side and looks down at the floor. Joan looks, too- red drag marks, probably from the victim's shoes. "As for these drag marks; a distinctive maroon color from the heels of the victim's shoes. Similar marks running the length of the corridor, which means she was dragged here from somewhere else." She looks at Gregson. "You mentioned an office?" Gregson nods and walks away, Sherlock following him. 

"Marcus," Joan asks before Marcus follows. He looks at her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Marcus," she says. He sighs and tilts his head. They go to a quiet area on the first floor. 

"Holmes just gets on my nerves sometimes."

"Why? She hasn't done anything different today." Marcus shifts on his feet. "All she's done is talk to the Cap-" Marcus scowls slightly. "Oh."

"What?"

"You don't like it when she talks to him." Marcus freezes. "Why?"

"You've been spending too much time with her," he complains. 

"Talk to me," she encourages.

"I don't know, Joan. I guess I just got used to being his right hand guy, you know? And now that Holmes is on the scene," he shakes his head. "I just feel a little," he trails off.

"Under appreciated."

"Something like that."

"Marcus. They're soulmates."

"So are you two."

"Yes, but I live with her. Trust me, I get my fill of her." Marcus laughs. "The Captain hasn't seen her outside these few weeks since 2001. Sherlock respects him, and he her." She smiles softly. "Now what do you say we go solve this?"

They go up to the office, which Sherlock and the Captain are just stepping out of. "We're just headed back to the precinct, a couple'a unis made the notification," Gregson says.

"Let's go," Marcus nods. Joan rides with him and Sherlock goes with Gregson. Silence reins for a while. "What's it like," Marcus asks softly.

"Living with Sherlock?"

"Having a soulmate," Marcus mutters.

Joan glances at the inside of his left wrist- under his watch she can see faded grey words. She first saw them a week ago. "I'm not sure," she admits. "As you can probably guess, Sherlock isn't average."

"You got that right."

"She doesn't seem to like physical affection, and can be silent for hours at a time. But," Joan trails off. "She's brilliant. Watching her work...I just get caught up in it." She pauses. "I'm going to miss her."

"What do you mean," Marcus asks.

"I'll be gone in ten days."

"Why?"

"My contract's up."

"As her valet?"

"Yes." She's surprised Marcus still believes that. Though, she guesses that Gregson wouldn't want word to get out.

"What are you going to do after?"

"Stay in touch," Joan nods. "Maybe visit when I have time between my other clients." 

"What's that like, being a valet for six weeks?"

"It's challenging. My job requires me to live in close contact with people, most of who have problems that they expect me to solve. Part of my job is making them realize that they're the only ones who can solve their own problems."

"Sounds like being a baby sitter."

"Now you sound like my mother."

"Joan, I didn't mean-"

"I know."

They pull up to the brownstone. Joan watches Gregson and Sherlock talk for a few moments before she gets out. Joan follows suit. Sherlock waits for her and holds the door open for her. Joan waves at their friends before she goes inside, and she doesn't hear them leave until both women are inside.

The next morning Sherlock lets her wake up on her own time, which is still earlier than she used to wake up. She ignore the voice in her head that reminds her of what Sherlock said when they first met- she had two alarms because she hated her job. Now she just has a phone alarm when Sherlock doesn't wake her. She goes downstairs to find Sherlock looking at her wall of evidence. It's sparse for now. "Ready," Joan asks her.

Sherlock nods and they go to the precinct. Gregson drives all of them this time. 

"Suburbia." Sherlock may have been saying 'vomit' with the distaste she infuses in the word. "I'm shocked you haven't tried to get me to move out here for the sake of my sobriety. All the 'structure' on display." The policemen had gone forward to knock on the door, and Sherlock elects to hang back on the sidewalk. Joan had quite happily joined her. She knows the man already knows that his wife was murdered, but to be reminded all over again by a Captain and Detective knocking on his door... She stops thinking about that and returns to her and Sherlock's conversation.

"Mock me all you want. Organization is a form of structure, and structure is good for recovery." Joan smiles at her teasingly. 

"After you complained about the state of the kitchen last night, I took a personal inventory, assessed myself." Joan looks at her. A good start. "I am excelling at recovery." Of course. Joan just manages to not roll her eyes by looking at the men knocking on the Purcells' door. "Which tells me that you're only taking a grim view because you're annoyed that I'm doing so well."

"Right," Joan replies. "I'm upset by your success which is, by association, my success."

"Success at a job you don't enjoy." _Here we go again._ "As opposed to my work, which invigorates you." 

"I've never denied the fact that I find what you do very interesting." She ignores the fact that she was excited last night when she found out they got a case. Like she said- she finds Sherlock's work interesting.

"I've decided, Watson; the lessons can continue after our companionship ends. A weekly salon perhaps. You could come by, I could share my wisdom. In exchange for some light housework, of course."

"I was always planning on staying in touch with you, Sherlock, but I'm not your maid." Joan looks at her. "We're soulmates." Sherlock looks at her and her expression softens just a tad.

"That we are."

"Holmes," Gregson calls, and both women look over. "Come on."

Joan watches Sherlock work, quietly deducing. The Purcells' daughter, Carly, comes over.

"Dad, is everything alright?"

"Fine, Carly. Why don't you get our guests some water?"

Carly pauses. "Of course."

"I'll give you a hand," Joan says, following her. They had already greeted at the door. 

"Thank you, Ms," she trails off. "I'm sorry, I forgot your name."

"Watson. Call me Joan."

"I can't do that," Carly laughs lightly, and Joan smiles. 

"Early admission to Georgetown _and_ Michigan," she marvels, reading the acceptance papers on the wall. She looks at Carly. "Congratulations, your mom must have been really proud."

"Yeah. She was."

"Looks like you're a pretty serious soccer player, too," Joan adds, looking at the articles and pictures pinned up as well. 

"The coach at Michigan promised me that I'd start," Carly says. But she doesn't sound happy; she sounds bitter. "But my mom had her heart set on Georgetown." Joan looks at her, and Carly starts to cry. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Joan assures her. She comes around the island and puts her hand on Carly's back, comforting her.

"I keep telling myself. Tough times don't last. Tough people do." She pauses. "And this too shall pass."

"This too shall pass," Joan repeats quietly. "Living one day at a time." Carly stops and looks at her. "I know a lot of people in recovery," Joan explains, pouring the water from the pitcher.

"Yeah," Carly whispers. "A couple of years ago, I hurt my knee." Joan hands her a glass of water. "So...I started taking pain pills just to like, get through games. By the end of the season I was taking them just to get through the day, and," she trails off and inhales. "My mom was the one who helped me get clean."

"You know, I'm going to give you my phone number," Joan says, going to her jacket. "If you need to talk, my phone's on all the time." Carly takes the number gratefully.

Sherlock, Gregson, and Marcus wrap up and Joan says goodbye to Carly. "All the time. I mean it," she whispers. Carly just nods. Joan meets Sherlock on the curb.

"Waste of time, that was," Sherlock says. "He's clearly got great confidence in his alibi. When I look at him I don't see killer I see," Sherlock pauses. "Bleh."

"How articulate." But Joan sees her point- the man is a stereotype. She looks around and sees a woman working in her yard. "You want the scoop on our victim," Joan asks Sherlock, who looks at her. "Talk to her."

Sherlock turns to follow her gaze. "She's worth talking to because?"

"She's trimming her evergreen in the middle of winter. You're supposed to do that in June." She looks at Sherlock. "And the only thing more important than a well-maintained lawn in the suburbs is gossip."

Sherlock nods, impressed, and they cross the street.

"Hares are much bigger than you think they are," Joan greets.

"You think they're more the size of rabbits," the woman greets back.

"Hi," Joan says. "We're with the police. We were talking to Mr. Purcell about his wife."

"I heard Teri died." She smiles sadly. "I'm Mrs. Dean."

"Ms. Watson, Ms. Holmes," Sherlock introduces them.

Mrs. Dean narrows her eyes at Sherlock, but recovers quickly. "Teri was a lovely woman. Everybody thought so. Men, especially."

The soulmates share a look as the other woman walks around them. "Is there any particular man you're referring to," Joan asks.

"Oh, I wouldn't want to speak out of school."

"Of course you wouldn't," Sherlock says.

"But," Mrs. Dean says. She gestures for them to follow her, and they go inside her house. She hangs up her coat on a rack and leads them to her living room. "I think Teri was having an affair. A very handsome man used to drop by a lot. Always when Oliver wasn't home. Before he lost his job, of course."

"Could you describe him," Sherlock asks, going right into detective mode.

"I can do better than that," Mrs. Dean says, picking up her phone. "My friend Sheila lives over on Oxford. She didn't believe me when I said that Saint Teri was entertaining a gentleman caller, so I took a picture for proof." She hands the phone over, and Sherlock takes it. "Like I said; handsome, right?"

"Very," Sherlock says. "I find his license plate particularly fetching." She looks up. "Mind if I text this to myself," she asks.

"Go right ahead." Mrs. Dean seems pleased her gossip helped. Now she can add 'crime solver' to her bragging rights.

The women meet Gregson and Marcus outside. "There you two are," Gregson says. "Why were you in there?"

"Mrs. Dean believes that Mrs. Purcell was having an affair," Sherlock says. She shows him the photo. "Shall we run the plate?"

"Marcus, take this down," Gregson says, putting on his glasses. Even then, he squints. Sherlock takes her phone back gently and reads it out. Gregson nods his thanks as he puts his glasses back.

They return to the station so Marcus can run it through his computer. When they get the answer, they leave sans Gregson.

"Teri was as passionate about our cause as anyone I've ever known," Mr. Silver says after introductions are made.

"Is that all she was passionate about," Sherlock asks. Joan gives her a pass this time- that was a perfect segue. 

"Uh, I'm not sure what you're asking," Silver says.

"Intercourse," Sherlock says. "Were you and Teri having it?"

"I assume you're referring to the conversational variety."

"No, I meant fornication," Sherlock replies. Joan wonders how long she can keep using euphemisms. "The insertion of part A into slot-"

"Mr. Silver," Joan interrupts her. Ok, she was wrong about the euphemisms. "We are not here to judge you."

"Perish the thought," Sherlock exclaims. "No, we are simply inquiring if your time spent with _Mrs._ Purcell involved coitus."

"No. It did not."

"Her neighbor seems to be under the impression it did," Marcus says. "She said you had a habit of visiting when Teri's husband wasn't around."

"I visited when he was home, too. Oliver is a friend; I've known him for as long as I've known Teri."

"Can you account for your whereabouts between 9 and midnight last night," Marcus asks.

"Yes. A friend and his wife had me over for dinner. Why?"

"We'd just like to call and confirm," Marcus says. He hands over his notebook. "So, if you wouldn't mind." Silver looks at Sherlock and takes a step towards her. 

"I don't really care what you think of me, but you got the wrong idea about Teri." He backs away and sits at his desk without looking. "She was as devoted to her family as she was to this foundation. She was, without a doubt, one of the finest human beings I've ever had the pleasure of knowing." He finishes writing and hands the book back to Marcus.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Silver," Marcus says. They walk out and Marcus' phone rings. "Excuse me. I have to take this." He walks away.

"Another suspect, another alibi," Sherlock groans.

"You're angry because Silver and the husband could prove they _didn't_ commit a murder," Joan asks, incredulous. 

"I'm angry because I've run out of suspects. At least for the time being. I really liked that one, too. Oily."

"He helps run a charity that dismantles landmines!"

"John Wayne Gacy donated his time to several charitable foundations. Does that make him a good person, too?" Marcus hangs up his phone and comes back before Joan thinks of a good response.

"So, that was the Captain," Marcus says. Joan chances a look at Sherlock- she doesn't seem upset that Gregson called Marcus and not her. "He talked to head of security at Teri Purcell's hotel. Now, he said they had a prostitution problem recently," he continues, pocketing his phone. "Some guests got solicited in the hotel bar and complained. Teri cracked down, cleared out the working girls. Few weeks later, she starts getting threatening anonymous calls."

"Probably from their pimps," Sherlock says. 

"That's what I'm thinking. I'm gonna head to Vice, see who might be running hookers at high-end hotels. Wanna come?"

"I appreciate the offer, Detective, but Watson and I have an errand to run."

"Alright," Marcus shrugs, walking away.

"An errand," Joan questions when Marcus is out of earshot. 

"Why go to Vice when you can explore the problem at its source," Sherlock asks, cocking her head slightly. "Tell me. Have you ever been whore-fishing?"

"I'm pretty sure they don't like to be called that," Joan says.

"British term. Nothing undue meant," Sherlock says, straightening. "You know me and my sexual proclivities, Watson. I'm the last person to judge a woman based on her number of sexual partners, past or present."

They arrive at Teri's hotel and grab a couple cups of tea, sitting in chairs facing the majority of the lobby and the bar. They sip silently and Joan sees a possibility. "What about that one," Joan asks.

"Too obvious. Too intoxicated. High-end escorts are more polished, discreet."

"You say that like you speak from experience."

"I do. Of a sort."

"Sherlock, were you," Joan starts, shocked.

"I've never been a sex worker, no. But I have been known to hire one for an evening's company."

"Sherlock!"

"I said 'company,' Watson. Not every night with a lady of the night has to culminate in sex. Sometimes, I just needed someone to talk to. They're better listeners than you might think, and I often chose the inexperienced ones so that they didn't have to entertain a john for however long they spent with me. They appreciated it."

"So you-"

"Enough about my past, Watson. No one will take you seriously as an investigator if you can't spot a _fille de joie_ at twenty paces."

"What is the point of this again," Joan deflects. There Sherlock goes, calling her 'an investigator.' She isn't; she's a sobriety counselor. 

"As Detective Bell suggested," Sherlock gestures with her cup. "If Teri Purcell ran afoul of the working girls in her establishment, it may well have led to her death. And if one of their pimps did indeed kill her-"

"Then they would know that the hotel was open for business."

"You're catching on."

"I just think this is a little," Joan trails off.

"A little what?"

"Never mind."

"No, Watson I've almost always encouraged your input."

"I just think it's a little sexist, that's all." Women are not banned from sexism, she knows, even against their own gender. 

"Anthropological, actually," Sherlock says. "The species we are on the hunt for is attractive, well-dressed, quick to laugh, and highly-skilled at spotting men coming in from out of town whose desires are not being fulfilled at home." Sherlock looks out at the bar and Joan follows her eye. "Like her." Sherlock puts her tea down and stands. Joan follows suit. Sherlock pulls out a chair for Joan, and she sits. "Excuse me. Might we offer you a drink and some company," she asks the blonde woman Joan is now sitting next to.

"Oh, a drink would be lovely," the woman says. Her voice is soft, inviting. She didn't react at all to Sherlock's lack of greeting. She's definitely pretty, but Joan doesn't see why Sherlock thinks this woman is a call girl. Until she roves her eyes over Joan. _Ah. Ok._

"Excellent. Now that's out of the way," Sherlock says. "My friend and I were wondering what you might charge to sleep with us." Joan gives her a sharp look despite her surprise. "Kidding," Sherlock smiles, turning back to the woman. "We're with the police-" her face falls "-and we were wondering if you or any of your fellow working girls might know who killed the manager of the hotel last night."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong idea about me," the woman says, getting up. Sherlock moves to cage her in. Not threateningly, just to prevent her from getting past her. 

"Do I," Sherlock questions. "I know your clothes say sophisticated businesswoman, but the faint line across your thighs means garter belt with stockings." Joan looks down despite herself. "And you've made meaningful eye contact with almost every unattached man in here, even the paunchy ones." The woman settles back in her chair and looks at Sherlock. "Now, shall I alert security to your presence, or do you mind answering just a couple of questions?"

"What do you want to know," the call girl relents.

"As I said, the manager of this hotel was murdered last night. I would like to know if _your_ managers are responsible."

"Why would any of those guys want to kill Teri?" Joan is shocked at the first name.

"So you knew her," Joan clarifies.

"Of course. We all did. But trust me, none of our _managers_ would ever lay a finger on her. Not in a million years."

"How can you be so sure," Joan asks.

"Because she was the reason most of us worked here."

"We were told that she chased you all out because some of the hotel guests complained," Sherlock says.

"She just helped us keep a lower profile. She'd sneak us in the back, put us up in the service elevators to meet the clients. She wanted us here." She clears her throat. "Now, if either of you ever decide you do want a date," she extends a card to Joan. "Call me. I think we'd have some fun." Joan pauses before she takes the black cardstock. The woman winks and leaves, leaving Joan looking at the business card.

"Melinda Hayes," she reads off.

"Almost certainly not her real name," Sherlock replies.

"No shit, Sherlock."

"You know, I've actually heard that a lot." Sherlock watches her. "Unless you want to call that number, I think we better tell Bell and Gregson what we've learned."

"You're kidding," Gregson says.

"In my experience, prostitutes are not often bald-faced liars," Sherlock says. "Twisters of truth, perhaps. But this one seemed truthful enough."

"I'll call around," Marcus shrugs.

"So far, every hooker we've talked to has said the same thing," Gregson says later. "Ever since Teri Purcell took over the hotel in '09, she's been arranging dates with rich businessmen and diplomats visiting from the U.N. Couple'a months ago, someone started complaining about prostitutes in the lobby. So she started sneaking 'em through the laundry room. They told us she's the one who kept disabling the cameras. When their business was complete, she'd sneak 'em back out. And get this- she did it all for free."

"You're saying she was a volunteer madam," Joan says, looking at Sherlock. Her soulmate only looks thoughtful. 

"According to the girls who worked there, yeah." Gregson leans up against his desk. "Their pimps _loved_ her."

"And the threatening phone calls," Sherlock asks.

"They all say they came from the one girl she did have to ban. The girl got high in the lobby and made a scene so Teri booted her." He walks closer to Sherlock and almost completely faces her, almost to the extent of putting his back to Joan. Joan notices he gets a little close, and wishes she could see either of their faces. "We tracked her down, she's six months into a bid on possession," Gregson shrugs. "Wyatt," he asks, looking through his window. "Excuse me." He leaves the women alone in his office.

"I don't get it," Joan admits. "Why would Teri risk her career to run a non-profit brothel out of her hotel?"

Sherlock taps her index fingers together. "House of secrets, that place. Perhaps it warrants a closer look."

Marcus is busy with the prostitutes, so they catch a cab.

Sherlock leads Joan to Teri's office and is examining the leg of the desk closely when she looks up. "You know, it occurs to me that once you've accepted my offer of an apprenticeship you should probably start taking notes."

"I'm not becoming your apprentice," Joan responds quickly.

"No, of course not." Joan's heart stutters. "Not in an official capacity. More likely you'd peddle some fiction to my father about me not being ready to be alone yet, hmm? Whatever your pride dictates, I shan't hold it against you." Sherlock keeps looking at her as she feels along Teri's desk.

"You know I'm not staying, right," Joan asks quietly.

Sherlock pauses. "What, and continue your journey to profound professional satisfaction?" Sherlock gets on her back under the desk and looks up. "Why would you?"

Joan crouches to see her better. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock rolls out from under the desk. "Secret compartments have been a part of cabinet-making since the Age of Enlightenment." Sherlock seems happy as she sits in the chair. "You know, I once spent a thrilling afternoon examining a Queen Anne secretary with no fewer than twenty-five hidden caches." She pulls out a drawer and lays it on her lap. She takes out the things inside, but pauses just after she puts something down. Joan looks- Teri's makeup.

"Why are you looking at her compact?

Sherlock picks it up again, weighing it in her hand. "It's heavy." She looks at the color. "Not even her shade." Joan takes a closer look at the makeup and then the photos on Teri's desk. She's right, the color is off. She would have pegged Teri as a winter. Sherlock opens the makeup and examines it, then closes it again. She twists at the base and amazingly, it opens a hidden compartment. Sherlock smiles while Joan laughs softly. Inside is what looks like a thumb drive.

"Wireless connector," Sherlock explains, taking off the things she put on top of Teri's laptop and plugs it in the side. "With this, Teri could sign in to an entirely private network." She types at the computer, and soon a screen with camera views comes up.

"Hidden cameras," Joan marvels.

"Nine hidden cameras," Sherlock clarifies. "Well, I think we've found out how Teri was profiting from her arrangement with the hookers."

They go back to the station and into Gregson's office.

"Blackmail," Sherlock says as she walks in.

"I believe you pronounce it 'hello,'" Gregson says, smiling slightly. 

"Hello," Sherlock says. "I think Teri Purcell was blackmailing the hookers' clients." Gregson sits up straighter. "That would explain why she allowed them to work at her hotel but never took her cut of the money. They gave her the chance to catch guests _in_ _flagrante delicto_."

"Why can't you just say 'sex' like a normal person," Gregson asks her. "That means every guest she ever blackmailed is a suspect in her murder," he continues without waiting for a response that Sherlock probably never intended to give. "But how do you know she was blackmailing them?"

"I found a wireless connector in a secret compartment in her compact. Once I plugged it into her computer, I found nine hidden cameras."

"Let's say they ran all day since '09, that's four years. That makes it-"

"Three hundred fifteen thousand, three hundred sixty hours," Sherlock says. Gregson stops.

"Did you just do that in your head?" He sounds almost awed.

"On the ride over," Joan tells him. "She used a calculator app on her phone."

"Might I add, there are no timestamps on any of the videos, so we can't be sure when any of it was happening," Sherlock adds.

"Ok, smartypants," Gregson smiles. "How long would it take my people to search through it?"

"No time at all. Give it to Watson and I."

"Beg your pardon?"

"I can watch them at two times speed, all at once."

"How," Gregson starts.

"Do you really want an explanation, or do you just want it done," Sherlock asks.

"Take it." Sherlock nods and starts to walk away. "Let me know the second you find something," he calls after her. Joan nods at him and follows Sherlock.

They go home and Sherlock retreats to her media room upstairs. Joan watches with her for a while, but she gets a headache and goes to run errands. When she gets back, she makes two cups of tea and brings them up, finding a metal garbage can on its side with its contents strewn around the room. 

"Do I want to know what happened," she asks. Sherlock doesn't turn around.

"You haven't missed a thing." Joan taps her shoulder with the cup of tea and she takes it without looking. "More yak than shack so far. Curiously, many of these videos are entirely prostitute-free," she trails off.

"I meant the garbage."

"Borrowed our neighbor's bin to test your theory about physical mess and its correlation to relapse," Sherlock responds. Joan glares at the back of her head. "I've been sitting here for hours and I have felt no additional temptation to use drugs."

"You're an asshole."

"So I've been told." Joan's phone rings from downstairs, and she goes to answer it.

"Umbrellas should be called overbrellas," she answers the unfamiliar number. 

"Is this Ms. Watson," the girl on the other end asks.

"Yes."

"Hi, it's Carly Purcell. You gave me your number the other day."

"Carly, of course," Joan says, sitting down. "I'm glad you called. Is everything ok?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah," Carly says. "I haven't taken any pills or anything I just-" the slight laughter turns to silence, and then Carly takes a deep breath. "I just needed to talk to someone," her voice now threatens tears.

"Ok, well, I'm here," Joan assures her. "You sound upset."

"You know what, I don't even know you, this was stupid, I-"

"No, I told you to call me if you wanted to talk, and you called."

"Just...my mom," Carly says. "I don't know, the way she was." There's a pause. "She's not...she's not what people thought."

"What do you mean," Joan asks, horrible scenarios going through her head. _Is she why Carly used? Did she abuse her?_ Silence. "Carly, tell me where you are and I'll come and meet you."

"I'm really sorry, but I've got to go." Carly hangs up. Joan slowly lowers her phone. She opens up the Captain's contact information. 

_What would I tell him? That Carly Purcell said that he mother's not who everyone thought she was? We know that already._ She sighs. _I need proof._ She puts her hand on her hip, staring down at her phone. _What would Sherlock do?_

"What would Sherlock do," Joan repeats to herself. "Deduce." _From what information_, Sherlock's voice says in her head. "The call." _What did you hear__?_ "Carly was upset." _We know that. What was in the background?_ Joan closes her eyes. "Night noises. Crickets." _There are no crickets in the city. She was probably at her house._ Joan picks up her keys. _Where are you going? You need more information. It won't do to go in without it._ Joan replaces her keys and sighs. _Time for bed, Watson._ She goes.

When Joan wakes up the next morning, Sherlock is still watching the cameras. She's in the same clothes she was in yesterday. "Did you get any sleep," Joan asks her.

"Here and there."

"I'm going shopping."

"Very well."

Joan goes grocery shopping, replaying what she can remember of Carly's call. She was upset. She didn't think she could turn to anyone in her life, not even her father. But she called Joan to talk. And then the door opened- Joan pauses in the middle of the aisle._Yes._ She had heard a door open. Carly had quickly ended the call after that. Maybe her dad had walked out to see where she was. Joan finishes up and goes home.

"Hey," Joan greets, finding Sherlock at the table. "Figured you'd still be watching the videos."

"I finished an hour ago. Apparently, the _photos_ in Teri Purcell's computer was the interesting part."

"What, Teri kept dirty pictures, too?"

Sherlock hums a negative, which makes Joan turn around and raise an eyebrow. Sherlock beckons her and Joan comes around to see the computer screen. Sherlock clicks on the photos. On the screen, an image appears of Teri and Oliver embracing. "Wait. It gets better." She clicks, and next is Oliver wearing a 'Kiss the Cook' apron. And then Carly with a soccer ball. "I know what you're thinking; innocuous. Mundane. But each of these stultifying-" Joan's gonna have to look that up later "-images contains almost a gig of memory."

"That's enormous," Joan says, shocked.

"That's steganography. The science of embedding hidden images in plain sight. Security through obscurity."

"So, you're saying that Teri's picture files are so large because she has content hidden in them."

"Luckily, I have a decryption program that should unlock the coded data," she says, holding up a memory stick and then plugging it into the computer. "In a matter of minutes."

"Carly called me last night," Joan says, straightening as they watch the progression bar fill. "I didn't mention it because she confided in me the other day," she continues, walking back to the groceries to continue putting them away. 

"About her drug use?" Joan looks back at Sherlock, shocked. "I overheard a snipped of conversation whilst I was questioning her father. It didn't seem relevant. Has it become so?"

"Well, she did mention something about her mother not being who everyone thought," she says, opening the fridge to stow some things away.

The computer beeps. "I must warn you, Watson. Whatever's on these videos is likely to be the vilest and most startling material that Mrs. Purcell gathered. So you might not want to watch this." Joan walks over. If Sherlock can watch it, so can she. Sherlock clicks. Two men speaking a foreign language Joan doesn't recognize. Another click, and this time it's a man on a phone speaking French.

"Wow. Yeah, I don't know how I'm going to unsee any of that."

"Shh!" Sherlock listens for less than half a minute, then lunges for her phone. 

"What, what is it, who are you calling," Joan asks, heart starting to race.

"Captain Gregson. We need to go back to the Purcell home immediately."

"Why, because some French guy is putting on too much deodorant," Joan asks, eyebrow raised.

"It's not what the people in these videos are doing, Watson. It's what they're saying." Sherlock has her phone to her ear.

"What are they saying?"

"Enough to make me sure that Teri and Oliver Purcell are spies." Joan's attention snaps to her. "Captain! There's something I have to tell you."

As Joan listens to Sherlock explain to Gregson, her heart beats faster and faster. _I'm going to miss this. _Then Sherlock's voice in her head pipes up again._ You don't have to, Watson. Be an apprentice._ She shoves that voice away.

They arrive at the Purcell home with multiple squad cars, all with sirens blaring. They see Oliver on his way to the curb with his garbage. He stops, puzzled. Joan follows Sherlock, Marcus, and Gregson out. "You're quite good, you know that," Sherlock asks.

"Beg your pardon?"

"Your accent, your attire, your decor. It all screams 'average American,' but you're neither, aren't you?"

"Someone want to tell me what the Hell is going on here," Oliver asks.

"Yeah, you're a spy," Sherlock says. "So was your late wife."

"What?!"

"We have a warrant to search your home, Mr. Purcell," Gregson says, handing it over. Purcell takes it and looks at it.

"Based on what?"

"Based on secret videos that your wife made of her globally relevant guests," Gregson says. He sounds almost like he has the entire time Joan's known him, but there's an edge under it that she's almost certain she never would have picked up on if not for Sherlock. 

"At first I thought she was using them for blackmail," Sherlock continues. "Why else would she facilitate a prostitution ring in her own hotel and collect none of the profits? Now I have the answer; the escorts made the hotel popular amongst international power brokers, foreign businessman, diplomats from the nearby U.N.," she lists, staring Purcell in the eye. "But it wasn't their bad behavior she wanted on video, no. It was their information. I imagine that while she was using her job to collect information, you were doing the same at your previous job at a financial consulting firm?"

"I was fired months ago," Purcell protests.

"No. You resigned," Gregson corrects.

"Your firm recently signed a contract with the Department of Defense," Sherlock says.

"The DoD would have required a thorough background check of all your firm's employees. You knew your legend wouldn't hold up to that kind of scrutiny," Gregson picks up.

"'Legend,'" Purcell scoffs.

"The elaborate and entirely false identities created for you and your wife by your Russian spymasters in order for you to pass as American citizens."

"Oh, so now I'm not just a spy, I'm a Russian spy."

"You made a point of stepping out to shake hands the other day," she gestures at his house. "It's bad form in Russian culture to shake hands beneath the arch of a doorway, is it not?" Purcell is now starting to look a little nervous. "Then there were the coins on your wife's desk. Money attracts money in Russian folklore. Leaving coins out is a way of inviting good fortune into your life. Didn't quite work out for her, did it?"

"Listen to me," Gregson says as Purcell straightens. "If what happened with Teri had anything to do with her spying, _now_ would be the time to tell us." Purcell looks down.

"I want a lawyer," he says, looking up.

"Yes, I rather expected you would," Sherlock admits. The unis take Purcell into custody. Joan stands next to Sherlock.

"What happens to Carly now?"

"Let's go see, shall we?"

But Carly isn't in the house. They return to the precinct and Sherlock glares at Purcell through the glass in Observation. Joan waits with her and Marcus. 

"I can't believe it," Marcus says quietly. "A real life spy."

"And a Russian one," Joan adds. Marcus nods.

"Amazing. He blended right in," he marvels. "I had no idea."

"Neither did I, if it makes you feel better, Detective," Sherlock says.

Gregson comes in, closing the door behind him. "I just got off the phone with the Feds, they're on their way down."

"Lovely. Can I question Oliver now," Sherlock gestures. Gregson puts his hand on hers and lowers it. 

"Easy. This is a joint operation. NYPD handles the homicide, FBI handles the espionage."

"But the homicide and the espionage are the same thing!"

"I know, it sucks. But the Feds have more clout than we do."

"And the bigger penis wins," Sherlock muses. Gregson just looks at her.

"Don't give me that. You couldn't have thought that we would just throw a Russian spy in our holding cell."

"I thought I would get to at least question him."

"We're _lucky_ they're even letting us- and by 'us' I mean the NYPD- hold him."

"Ah, yes. Let's all kowtow and show our gratitude to the bumbling, inept bureaucracy that is preventing us from questioning our best and most interesting suspect that sits not ten feet away!"

Gregson puts his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. Joan shoots a look at Marcus, who looks as shocked as she feels. "Breathe," Gregson coaxes gently. Sherlock obeys. "Again." She does. She keeps doing it until the tension drains out of her, and then Gregson squeezes once and lets her go. 

"Carly," Joan says to break the stunned silence between her and Marcus and the...whatever it is...between Gregson and Sherlock. "I've been trying to get in touch with her. She's seventeen, her mother's been murdered, and she's about to find out both her parents are Russian spies."

"Watson's right," Sherlock says, nodding. "She could be in danger, especially if she was a part of her parents' operation."

"I talked to this girl; she is a confused teenager, not a sleeper agent. And now she's alone."

"Spies are never alone," Sherlock realizes. The others look at her. _Did she not hear a word I said__?_ "They have handlers."

The next day, Joan still hasn't heard from Carly and is starting to cross the threshold from worry into panic. But she still follows Sherlock and Marcus to Silver's non-profit.

As Sherlock stalks out without Silver, her phone rings. She checks the I.D. "Captain. How may I be of assistance?"

A long pause. "Thank you, Captain." She hangs up.

"Well," Marcus asks. "Care to share with the class?"

"Oliver Purcell has agreed to talk." Joan and Marcus look at each other.

"And he called you instead of me because?"

"Apparently, I'm allowed to sit in because I helped catch him."

Marcus' expression grows thunderous. "And what am I?"

"Nothing against you, Detective. But I was the one who found the videos and put it all together."

Marcus turns and walks to the car, Joan hurrying after him and Sherlock behind her.

Joan and Marcus watch from Observation as Purcell is questioned. When Carly is brought up, she tenses. She dreads the next words out of his mouth- 'yes, Carly is a spy.' "But you can't raise a spy," he says instead. "Teri and I found ourselves with a daughter." Joan exhales. He loves her.

"When did you initiate her into the family business," Sherlock asks, and Joan starts to tense again. "Come on, Mr. Purcell. Russia invested a great deal of time and money into your family; they must have had a plan for Carly."

"They did," Oliver snaps. He sounds bitter. "But I worked twenty years for the SVR, living a lie. I wanted a better life for my daughter."

"You and your wife see eye-to-eye on that," the FBI agent asks.

"No. Teri wanted to tell Carly. To Teri, serving Russia was still the highest calling."

"That's got to be a hard disagreement to resolve," Gregson says.

"It was," Oliver nods. "And so I threatened to expose the operation. Said I'd take my chances with the U.S. Government before I let the SVR use my daughter. That was enough to shut Teri and Geoffrey up."

"Geoffrey Silver, your handler," Sherlock asks. Oliver nods. Sherlock leans in and whispers to Gregson, but she's close enough to the intercom for Joan and Marcus to hear her. "I believe that constitutes a positive I.D. in Silver's involvement in the espionage."

"I'll send a uni," Gregson says back just as quietly.

Joan's phone starts to buzz and she looks at it. Carly. She steps outside Observation to answer. "Carly," she sighs. "Are you ok?"

"I was coming home last night and I saw the police take my dad away." Carly's crying. "What's going on, Ms. Watson?"

"He's just answering some questions right now," Joan says, trying not to give too much away.

"Do you guys think he had something to do with my mom," Carly exclaims.

"No. No, no, nothing like that. Tell me where you are, and I'll come and meet you. Ok?"

"Ok," Carly says in a tiny voice. 

"Thanks for meeting me," Carly says, wiping her nose with her glove. "It's been a rough couple days."

"I get it." Joan pauses. "Carly, you said the other night that your mom wasn't who everyone thought she was. What did you mean by that?" She sees Carly's expression. "Did you know she was a spy?" A pause, and then Carly nods. "Your dad, too?" Another nod. "How long have you known for?"

"My mom told me a few days ago," Carly sobs.

"That's a lot for anyone to process."

"My father shouldn't be under arrest, it's my fault."

"You can't take on your parents' mistakes," Joan assures her.

"No, you don't understand, it's literally my fault. I killed my mother." Joan just stares at her. "It was an accident," she cries, leaning into Joan. She hugs her. 

"I think it's time we go to the police," Joan says quietly. Carly sobs but nods against her. Joan gets her into her car and buckles her in. Carly slowly stops crying and is silent until they pull up to the precinct.

"Is this as bad as I think it is," Carly asks.

"If it was an accident? Maybe not."

They arrive in the precinct and Joan takes her to Gregson's office. He and Sherlock are in there, and they turn when she closes the door behind them. "I found Carly. And she has something to tell us." Sherlock nods and sits down. "Take off your jacket, Carly." Joan helps her out of it and Carly puts it over the arm of the chair she sits in.

"I killed my mother."

Gregson freezes. "Ms. Purcell, before we go any further, I'm going to read you your Miranda rights," he says, voice gentle. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you do say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be provided for you. Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?"

"Yes. I waive them."

Gregson gets a pad of legal paper from his desk and sits next to Sherlock. Joan notices he sits so close that when he gets settled their knees brush.

"It was the day I got my acceptance from Michigan," Carly starts. "Full athletic scholarship. The first thing I do is call my mom, 'cause I figured she'd be as thrilled as I was." She sobs.

"It's ok, Carly," Joan soothes. "Just try to tell us what happened."

"She sounded weird," Carly admits. "She told me that I had to go straight to the hotel, so that's what I did. And when I got there, she said that Michigan was out of the question, that I was going to Georgetown. And I didn't understand why she was being so insistent," Carly shrugs. "But then she explained why."

"She told you the truth about her and your father," Sherlock says.

"At first, I thought it was a joke. I mean, Russian spies? We live in _Westchester,_ we drive a _minivan__." _She inhales. "But it wasn't a joke. Everything my parents had told me was a lie." _Poor girl_.

"Odd that your father wasn't there as well, no," Sherlock asks.

"She said that we had to keep it between us," Carly sniffles. "That he wouldn't understand. And so it was really important for all of us for me to do exactly what she told me to do."

"Did she threaten you," Joan asks.

"She told me that there were people out there who could hurt us." _That's not enough_, Joan laments. "And I figured they were the people she was working for."

"Why was your mom so intent on you going to Georgetown," Gregson steers gently.

"She said that it had the better government program. That a degree from there would really mean something. I suppose after college, I was supposed to get a job in Washington or something," Carly covers her face.

"Where you could operate as a second-generation agent," Sherlock says. Carly nods. "U.S. national who could penetrate the corridors of government power and gain access to information she never could."

"She had my whole life planned out," Carly says, calmer. "She wanted me to give up everything I ever wanted for a country I've never even seen, so I said 'no.' I said no to Georgetown, no to spying, no to all of it! I was going to Michigan, I was going to play soccer!: She starts to cry again. "I just, I-" she gasps. "I'd fought back from too much not to follow my dream." Carly pauses. "I told her that I'd go to the police if she tried to stop me, and that I'd tell them about her." She sobs quietly. "She grabbed me and I-I was so freaked out that I pushed her and she fell and hit her head on the desk. I called her name a couple times, but she just lay there. And that's when Mr. Silver came in."

All three of them perk up.

"Geoffrey Silver," Gregson asks. Carly nods.

"Yeah. He told me that he was my mom's handler and th-that I was in a lot of trouble." She starts to cry in earnest again. "He told me that if I didn't go right away, I was going to go to jail and I'd never see my dad again." She sobs. "I was so afraid. My dad was all I had left so I-I-I didn't know what to do so I went home and...I didn't say anything." She takes a deep breath. "Whatever else you think my dad did, he didn't kill my mom." A long pause. "I did."

Joan looks at Gregson and wishes that the man was easier to read. He has his lips slightly pursed and he's flipping his pen end to end on his pad. Joan watches his hand slowly relax to let the pen hit the paper, slide down and grip the bottom, and just as slowly lift up again and let the rest of the pen swing down before he does it again.

"Captain Gregson," Carly says. "Can I see my dad?"

"I'm afraid not, Ms. Purcell," Gregson replies quietly.

"Will I ever see him again?" Gregson doesn't answer, and Carly bows her head and cries. Joan gets up and stands over her, and Carly leans into her. "I want my dad," she sobs. Joan strokes her hair.

"I know you do, Carly."

Sherlock leans into Gregson and says something Joan doesn't catch.

"Outside," Gregson replies, and the pair leave. Joan comforts Carly the best she can. Slowly, her sobs soften to sniffles. 

"This is bad, Ms. Watson."

"Yes, Carly."

"I'll never see my dad again."

"You don't know that." 

Carly looks up. "They're going to lock him up in some special prison in the middle of nowhere where they don't get visitors and I'm going to jail." Joan smooths Carly's hair back. "Right?"

"I don't know, Carly. Let's get you washed up." She takes Carly to the bathroom. The girl splashes water on her face. She remains leaned over the sink, quiet.

"Is Mr. Silver going to jail, too?"

"Yes."

"Good. He's the reason I'm going to prison. If he hadn't shown up," she sniffles, then gets herself under control again. "I would have been normal."

Joan brings her back to Gregson's office, but a uniformed officer stops them just outside. "Captain," Joan calls, looking around for him.

"I'm sorry, Joan," Gregson says. "But this is how we have to do it."

The officer puts handcuffs on Carly- thankfully in the front- and leads her away. Joan hangs her head. Sherlock comes up beside her. "Want to go get the last Russian spy," she asks her. Joan follows them.

“I can neither confirm nor deny anything that Carly Purcell may have told you,” Silver says, his hands cuffed behind him and sitting on a table in the common room of his office.

“Because you don’t want to be charged as an accessory to murder,” Gregson says, voice hard.

“And because I don’t recognize your authority,” Silver shrugs. 

“Oh, you’re gonna ‘respect my authority’ because the government of New York is going to put you in prison for the rest of your natural life.” Silver’s mouth quirks up. “I say something funny to you?”

Silver slowly stands and looks Gregson dead in the eyes. Joan watches Sherlock’s gaze turn from angry to thunderous. She takes a step towards them but Gregson holds out his hand, stopping her. “I don’t respect your authority because I won’t spend more than a week in one of your American jails.”

“And why is that?”

“People in my alleged line of work don’t tend to be imprisoned. We tend to be traded. I’d bet all the money in the world that your government is perusing a catalogue of political prisoners they’d like to see released from Russia.” He turns to the FBI liaison standing behind him. “Am I right?” Joan can tell from her expression that he is. So can Gregson, apparently.

"Well, then. I guess we'll just let the Feds do," Gregson pauses to look at their liaison. "Whatever the fuck it is the Feds do. Come on." Joan walks past Silver to follow her friends.

"You ruined that girl's life," she tells him. Silver doesn't react. 

Joan goes home and puts everything on the wall of her room, looking over it. Sherlock's method works- she can see everything like this. 

"What would Sherlock do," she whispers. And she starts to work.

Sherlock opens her door. "I'm flattered, Watson," she says. Joan doesn't turn. "It's a lovely homage to my methodology. But why apply it to a case that's already solved?"

"That door was closed," Joan bites. Sherlock comes and sets a mug down. 

"Was it," she asks, conversational.

"I just," Joan starts. "Carly Purcell doesn't deserve what's happened to her. I thought if I looked over the evidence one more time," she continues. "I could...I don't know."

"You could what? Rewrite history?" Joan can hear soft clinking behind her and knows Sherlock is using a utensil in the mug. "She already confessed."

Joan looks at the mug Sherlock brought her and goes to bring it to her mouth but stops. "What is that? Spaghetti in a mug?" She takes some out with the provided fork and lets it fall. "I take it there are still no clean bowls or plates?" She sighs, looking at her evidence wall. "How do you deal with cases not ending up like you want them to?"

"The only thing a puzzle promises is an answer. Liking the answer doesn't factor in." Sherlock's voice is gentle, so much gentler with her than with Carly. _Why can't you show this side of you to anyone other than me and Gregson_, Joan wonders. "In our line of work, it mustn't."

"You're right." She looks back at Sherlock, who's sitting on the edge of her bed "What is that," she asks, seeing a yellow envelope under her arm.

"Oh. Teri Purcell's autopsy report just showed up on our front step."

"I actually requested that from Gregson." She reaches for it and Sherlock hands it over. Joan opens it, holding the x-ray of Teri Purcell's hand to the lamp. 

"There's a break in her fourth metacarpal," Sherlock notes.

"That...is a boxer's fracture," Joan says, confused.

"Resulting from a clenched fist striking something. Or someone."

"Carly said her mom didn't hit her. Do you think she's lying?"

"She willingly confessed to matricide this afternoon. I highly doubt she would leave out the part where dear old mum fought back. The pen!"

Joan looks up in time to see Sherlock pull a piece of paper from her wall. "Hey," she protests. "I put that there for a reason."

"Well done, Watson," Sherlock praises.

"For what?"

"Not giving up. It's a trait any detective worth their salt needs." Sherlock smiles. "I've just realized Carly didn't kill her mother."

"But she said-"

"Her mother was knocked out from hitting her head. Not dead. She was alive when Silver took her."

"Silver," Joan realizes.

Sherlock nods.

They go into work the next day and straight to Gregson’s office. “We need to talk to Silver again,” Joan says. 

“You’re getting to be as bad as her,” Gregson points to Sherlock. “Good morning.”

“Sorry. Got excited. Good morning. Carly didn’t kill her mother.”

“But she confessed.”

“Because she thought she did.”

“Now you’re really starting to be as bad as her. Explain.”

“Sherlock realized that the pen didn’t fit.”

“Only because Watson put it up on her wall,” Sherlock tells him.

Gregson just stares at them. 

“Right,” Joan whispers. “The empty fountain pen that we found in the washer with Teri.”

“I remember,” Gregson nods.

“It wasn’t empty,” she grins.

“But you said it yourself, Sherlock; there wasn’t any ink anywhere.”

“There was. We just couldn’t see it.”

Gregson shrugs. 

“Come on, you’ve never seen a spy movie,” Joan smiles. “What do spies always have?”

“A phone in their shoe and a grappling hook?”

“And what do they write with?”

Gregson’s face brightens. “Invisible ink.” He grins slowly. “You two are incredible. But how does that help Carly?”

“Silver,” Sherlock says. “Carly said that he disposed of the body.”

“But she wasn’t dead yet,” Gregson realizes. “So he killed her. Why?”

“To have leverage over Carly,” Joan says.

“How do we prove it?”

“Invisible ink becomes visible under U.V. light,” Sherlock says. “All we have to do is take one of CSU’s and put it over Geoffrey Silver’s closet and see which shirt lights up.”

“Let’s go.”

Joan watches Carly Purcell walk away from her to go see her dad. “Tough times don’t last,” she looks back at her.

“Tough people do.” Joan watches her go and then her cell phone rings.

“How’s Ms. Purcell,” Sherlock asks her.

“As well as can be expected.”

“I’m quite proud of you, Watson. Your doggedness. I give you as much credit for solving this case as I do myself.”

“Thanks.” At any other time, she would be proud, but…

“No wonder you’re so keen to stay on as my associate.”

“Sherlock-”

“Like I said. We’ll tell my father I’ve hit a bit of a rough patch. He’ll keep the checks coming and you’ll continue to hone your skills-”

“I took another job this morning.” Sherlock looks at her. “I work with other therapists and I was referred to another client. I’ll be starting with him next week after you and I wrap up.”

“I see.” Sherlock faces forward. “Usually, I’m quite good with deductions.”

“Are you ok,” Joan asks her. Sherlock’s harder to read than Gregson is.

“Oh, my dear Watson. Whenever am I not?” She gets up and walks away. Joan lets her.


End file.
